Finding a Way
by purply1235
Summary: Born in District Three, her future was promising: after the Reaping, she'd begin her apprenticeship, then go on to become one of the most successful inventors Panem has ever seen. Unfortunately, the Games have other ideas. 15 year old Widget Irving had her whole life planned out. Now she's a tribute in the 73rd Hunger Games. The odds are stacked against her. Can she pull through?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Good News**

 **Author's Note:** _Thanks for clicking! This is an idea I've had in my head for a while. I was recently consumed once again by the Hunger Games after watching Mockingjay Part Two. This is my first fic that I've actually done something with, so feedback is much appreciated!_

* * *

"She's a natural, Mrs. Irving. There isn't much else we can offer her here."

My mother, whose expression doesn't usually convey anything other than cool indifference, lights up at the headmaster's words. This is, after all, her dream come true: one of her very own children, smart enough to leave the district behind. To enter the inventors labs and become one of the very few privileged enough to lead a mobile life of innovation, free from the constraints of District Three's looming concrete walls.

Well, mostly free. The District Three elite are still member's of the district, and like all members are still under constant strict Capitol surveillance. Every so often reminders of this come in the form of inventors dying mysteriously in Capitol laboratories, or the sons and daughters of opinionated high level workers being reaped for the Games.

Surveillance aside, the inventors still have mobility- something most people here can only dream of. Inventors get to ride the trains, spreading their inventions to the furthest corners of Panem. Every year one of them visits the schools of Three, serving as a reminder of what ordinary kids can achieve if we just work hard enough. They always tell us tales of the projects beyond the walls, in the other districts, in the glorious Capitol. These reminders work, for the most part. The visitors fill the kids' heads with just enough hope and determination to last until they return the year after, ready to give another empowering speech.

Of course, most of it is nonsense. Every able-minded person in Three goes through the same system of schooling, and at the end of the day only a very select few are chosen to be Lab Apprentices. And only one-fifth of those go on to be inventors. The odds of anyone even getting the opportunity of making it to that level are extremely low.

Yet somehow I managed to get this far.

My mother smiles now, pride evident in her voice as she asks, "So does this mean she can proceed to the next level?"

The headmaster smiles, but shakes his head. "Unfortunately, apprenticeship will not be possible for Widget for another year. You see, it is very rare for someone so young to qualify for the position. The labs were not anticipating any new students until six months after the Reaping."

At this my mother frowns. I, too, am confused- if I can't become an apprentice until next year, what am I supposed to do between now and then?

"Well what is she going to do until then?" Mother questions, somewhat frustratedly.

"She has a choice. At the moment, we have two available options: Widget can either remain in her Advanced Programming course until the Labs can take her for her apprenticeship-"

"I'm a bit tired of that class, sir..." I interrupt. It's true. For the past two years I've taken Advanced Programming, and the past year has been migraine-inducing. Not necessarily because the subject matter is too difficult- I can handle most of it fine-but because it's incredibly, mind-numbingly boring. Contrary to what many of my classmates might tell you, I despise everything about programming. In truth, I would rather spend all day doing something much less demanding, like writing music or birdwatching.

Hah! Birdwatching. If only that payed for food.

Inventing is what I've been trained to want my whole life. I can't imagine a future doing something else- my parents and teachers have thoroughly convinced me that this path is the only option. And when you look at the available alternatives and salaries, it certainly seems like the only real option.

"I'm not finished." The headmaster gives me a reprimanding gaze, and I shrink back in my seat self-consciously.

"As I was saying, the other option would be a sort of unofficial apprenticeship."

"Unofficial?" If I wasn't confused before, I certainly am now. I've never heard of anyone doing an unofficial apprenticeship.

"Yes. Before you proceed with the next level of training, one of our retired inventors has volunteered to show you the ropes, so to speak. You would go to his house and he would introduce you to the basic concepts of inventing. Prepare you for the labs."

It takes me a minute to process this information, but when I do I know I'll have to say yes. Pretty much anything beats another year of programming.

"Which inventor?" I ask.

"Inventor Nimb," he replies.

"Oh, Widget, I remember him!" My mother exclaims, turning to me. "He visited my class twenty years ago when I was taking circuitry. He was a lovely gentleman, very inspiring speech..."

"Well, Widget? Mrs. Irving?" The headmaster glances at the clock above the door impatiently, as if he has somewhere vitally important he has to be and we are holding him up.

 _As if,_ I think to myself. _You don't have anywhere to go. You're just a failed apprentice._

"Yes, Headmaster Clarke, working with Inventor Nimb sounds incredible." Out of the corner of my eye I see my mother nod approvingly.

"Very well. I will notify Inventor Nimb later this evening, and you can begin training after the Reaping. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Irving."

"Yes, thank you headmaster." My mother says as she stands up, heading for the door. I follow behind her, and only speak after the door closes behind us.

"Um...that went well?" My statement ends up coming out like a question, but my mom just turns around and envelopes me in a fierce hug. I am surprised; this is an unusual display coming from her. The meeting must have made her very happy.

"I am _so_ proud of you!" She says into my hair. I hug her back, laughing. _This_ is why I'm doing this. I've come so far, made so many people proud. It feels good.

We walk back home to the MSA in relative silence. I don't mind- it's not awkward. I feel content. I can't wait to tell my father the good news. Coyle will be so impressed- he just entered the Panem Advanced Technical Training a few months ago. Dash, well... He'll be happy for me on the inside.

Suddenly a little boy comes running down the street, side-stepping my mother and barreling right into me. This causes him to drop the square bread he was carrying, the small loaves scattering on the pavement. Hurriedly, he bends down to gather them, frightened eyes scanning his surroundings before getting up and sprinting away.

Just as the boy turns a corner and disappears from view, Mr. Heckle comes hobbling towards us from the same direction, waving an angry fist as he goes.

"Hey! Stop him! Stop that thief!" The old baker shouts to no one in particular. My mother and I watch as he takes several heavy steps forward, then stops in the middle of the road, clutching his side.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Heckle, he's long gone," I say to the baker as we pass him. I secretly hope the boy doesn't get caught. Years of selling bread on the same street every single day has made Mr. Heckle a grumpy old man, and even though I sympathize with him to a certain extent, the boy probably needed those rolls more than he did.

"No good factory spawn. No good, I tell ya," he grunts, turning around and hobbling back to his bread cart.

My family, like sixty percent of those in District Three, live in the Manufacturing Settlement Area, or MSA for short. This is essentially the hub of District Three. The railway is located here, as well as all of the prestigious labs and business centers. Our house is only a block away from the Snow Technology Development Center, where the apprentices train to become inventors. Almost everyone who lives in the MSA either works in one of the STDC's associated labs as an engineer, tester or experimental physicist. Both of my parents are testers in STDC Lab #5.

Outside of the MSA, however, there isn't much. The outskirts are where the poorer people of the District live. These small towns are built around factories, where the District sends all children who do not pass advanced placement. The factory workers then spend the rest of their lives carrying out the manual labor required to assemble most of the technology and machinery. The job pays little and demands a lot, which is why factory workers and their children end up living in poverty.

As one might expect, technology is not a very simple area of study. The school system here is designed to filter out the brightest students, and separate Three's youth into two general categories, which over the years have been nicknamed the "bulbs" and the "duds."

At age three all children go through the annual 'district roundup.' The children are all tested to determine their aptitude, intelligence and learning ability. Those who pass- the 'bulbs' proceed to advanced placement, and are then taken from their families to begin school at Panem Advanced Technical Training. This was the story with me and my little brother. I went through twelve years at the PATT, coming home on the weekends and for Reapings.

Those who fail the test are the 'duds.' They live with their parents until they are old enough to follow instructions and operate basic factory tools, and then are expected to show up to work every day in the outskirts. Most of the time, the populations in the MSA and the outskirts stay constant: factory parents tend to have factory children, and vice versa. Sometimes, though, MSA parents will end up with duds; rarely do factory parents have bulb children.

"Here we are!" My mother chimes happily, opening the door to our small house. Inside my father sits at the table, reading what I assume to be his latest test results.

"Modeme! Widget! How was the meeting?" My father sets the papers down on the table, gazing at us expectantly.

Before I can open my mouth, my mother answers for me. "She made it in! Widget will start at the STDC next year!"

My father's expression transforms into one of pure joy. "That's amazing! I knew she could do it! She's a smart little thing, my Widget!"

The commotion draws Coyle, my little brother, from his room. "What happened?" He questions, eyeing our parents suspiciously. At just three and a half years old, Coyle isn't much of a conversationalist, but his careful and calculating personality is already very defined. He passed the round up a few months ago and just started at Technical Training.

"Your sister did it, Coyle! She's gonna become a big, fancy inventor!" My father strides over to the three-year-old, picking him up and swinging him around elatedly. This elicits a round of infectious giggling from the little boy, which of course results in everyone laughing along with him.

Yes, this is why I need to continue training. Everyone is so happy for me.

After we've all seemingly run out of laughs, I head to the bathroom to wash up and get changed into my sleeping clothes. It's already starting to get dark outside- a little bit of light left over from the sunset shines through the window as I make my way down the hall. I'm going to have to be quick- father decided to stop paying for electricity after the Capitol raised the prices last year, and showering in the dark isn't very pleasant.

As I shower I think about the wonderful day I've had. I received an unusual but exciting apprenticeship offer, made my mother and father overjoyed, and got to hear Coyle giggle. After the reaping I can start the apprenticeship, and hopefully become an inventor. If I get the position, my family will never have to worry about housing, food or electricity ever again.

There's just one person I have to talk to before I go to bed.

When I knock on our door, as usual, there's no response. "Dash?" I call quietly, "I'm coming in!"

He's in bed, but I can tell he isn't sleeping. He never is. My older brother is unmoving for several seconds, and I just stand in the doorway looking at his form. Eventually, a low voice responds, somewhat annoyedly. "What is it, Widget?"

"I wanted to tell you the news." I take a few steps into our shared bedroom, closing the door behind me. "I made it in. They told me I could start next year."

Silence answers me.

"I thought you would be happy for me. It's kind of a big deal, and-"

"And you thought I'd be surprised? Come on, Widget. Stop pretending to be modest. We all know you're really smart, and no one in the entire district expected anything less."

Dash's voice is bitter. Resentful. I suppose I knew he would react this way, but somehow I hoped he'd find it in him to at least _pretend_ he didn't hate me.

"I wish you could get over your whole jealousy thing for at least a minute. Everyone else is happy for me."

"If everyone else is happy, why do you need validation from me? My opinion means nothing."

The silence returns. I let him have the last word.

Tomorrow will be a better day. Mom and Dad will still be proud of me, and maybe I can help Coyle with his homework. In just two days the Reaping will be over with, and I'll meet Inventor Nimb.

Everything will be fine.

—

 _ **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Comments appreciated. I may or may not continue with this, but I figured it would be healthy to put something out there for once. Also if anyone was wondering I got most of the background for how District Three works from the Panem propaganda website._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: The Reaping**

 **A/N:** _I didn't really have much to do yesterday because I'm still on spring break, so I figured I might as well work on Chapter Two. I ended up finishing it, so here it is! Feedback is much appreciated!_

* * *

When I crack my eyes open on the morning of the Reaping, there's a bird sitting on my window ledge.

"Why hello there," I yawn. Its feathers are sleek and jet black. I know it couldn't have heard me through the glass, yet somehow it turns its head and meets my gaze. For a moment we stare at each other, neither one of us moving or breaking eye contact. Then with a flap of those dark wings it disappears, flying away into the early morning.

"Talking to yourself again?"

I roll my eyes at the mocking tone in his voice. _Sure,_ I think, _because I'm_ _the crazy one._

"Just get it together before the Reaping, would you? Wouldn't want anyone thinking the new apprentice has lost her mind."

I refuse to take the bait, staring resolutely at the wall until Dash gets bored and leaves the room. Arguing pointlessly with my older brother always puts me in a horrible mood, and I figure avoiding that at all costs is vital, today more than ever. The Reaping is already going to make me a nervous mess.

 _Don't think about that. Remember how fun yesterday was?_

Yesterday was the happiest I've been in a while. To celebrate the good news we received the day before, my parents surprised me with a piece of red berry cake for breakfast.

"Oh, Mom!" I exclaimed, "You shouldn't have gotten me anything special!" I meant it: red berry cake is not cheap, and my parents must have spent more than was sensible on the sugary treat.

"Oh, we couldn't help it," my father chuckled, winking at me, "You're a special girl!"

I shared my breakfast with Coyle, who pronounced it delicious with crumbs all over his little face.

"Coyle!" My mother scolded, "Food should be eaten, not worn. Look at how messy your shirt is!"

My little brother simply shrugged unapologetically, annoying her further by brushing the little red bits onto the floor.

"Honestly! Widget, could you do me a favor and clean him up? If only I could remember where I put the broom..."

"Sure, Mom," I replied, whisking the little boy away to wash up. As I wiped his crumby face, he looked up at me and grinned. "Widget, I want cake every day!"

I snorted at this, causing me to accidentally get water in his eye. "Sorry, sorry!" I apologized, still laughing to myself.

After breakfast was over I got to spend the whole afternoon with Grace. Grace is my best friend. She was in all of my classes up until our tenth year at PATT, but after that was assigned to study biotech. Even though I went on to do programming, we still managed to find time to see each other.

Grace never goes home on the weekends. She's a rarity among the kids at Technical Training: both of her parents are factory workers. She doesn't like going back home, so she spends all of her free time in the MSA. I don't know much else about her family, except that she has a little sister, Brin, who also works in the outskirts.

Brin chased down Grace outside of the PATT once to ask for something, but I haven't seen the young girl since. Grace wasn't too happy to see her sister, and I suspect there were some strong words exchanged after I bade them farewell.

Sometimes I pity Grace. She isn't very close with her family, and I can't imagine a world where I don't talk to my parents. But then again, she's lucky that she even managed to get out of the outskirts. Life is better in the MSA; I know for a fact that her sister has to register for tesserae every year.

Grace and I sat in the square, watching the Peacekeepers march to and fro in front of the railway station. We talked for hours; I told her about my meeting with the headmaster the day before. She, like my parents, was happy for me. "Just don't go become a fancy-pants inventor and forget about me," she said jokingly. "Promise you'll come visit me once in a while."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I responded. "And besides, It's not like I'm leaving anywhere any time soon. I probably won't get to go anywhere outside the borders for years. And that's only if I manage to pass the apprenticeship in the first place."

She rolled her eyes and stood up. "Puh-leez," Grace answered, "As if you won't get in. You're top of the class."

She walked me back to my house in the evening, where Dash stood outside on the front doorstep absently throwing pebbles at the wall. He didn't even look up at us as I said goodbye and walked inside.

Yes, yesterday was a good day. And after the stupid Reaping is over with, today will be, too.

I sigh and reluctantly untangle myself from my blanket, shivering as I do so. It's unusually chilly this morning, and my thin nightdress doesn't offer me much warmth. Feet bare, I pad across the room to the small wooden closet containing all of my and Dash's clothes. My Reaping dress is a pale purple color, and I have to reach all the way to the back to grasp it.

I groan inwardly as I eye the thing for the first time in a year. It's too small for me of late, but buying a new dress every year just isn't an option for us. I only wear it for about two hours anyway; when I get home I shove it right back in the corner, where it belongs.

I finish squeezing into the dress just as Dash barges into the room. "You could have knocked," I grumble. He grunts in response, brushing past me to grab his Reaping clothes from the closet.

Clutching his dress shirt, he looks at me pointedly and gestures for me to leave. "Fine," I huff, leaving the room and shutting the door with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

I can't wait until the Reaping is over. Everyone's in a grumpy mood today.

My mother's face is a mask of calm as she hands me a square of bread. "Get some food in you before we leave," she orders. "Is Dash dressed yet? I told him to put some clothes on almost a half hour ago."

I swallow my mouthful of bread before answering, "He's getting ready in our room."

"Good. I need to go find Coyle. COYLE!" With that she hurries away, presumably to wrestle my little brother into something semi-presentable. He hates crowds, and will no doubt throw a tantrum about attending the Reaping.

 _If he hates it now, what will he think when his name is actually entered_? I shudder at the thought of an older Coyle standing among the eligible children of the District. By the time he's twelve, Dash will already be long aged out of the system. If, heaven forbid, Coyle was ever reaped, there would be no one willing to take his place.

Well, not that there would be now, anyway.

"Morning, Widget," says my father as he enters the kitchen. He tries his best to look like nothing is bothering him, but I note the undercurrent of tension in his voice. I don't blame him. Reapings are always stressful, even if the odds of your own children being chosen are far from high.

"Morning, Dad." I finish the remaining bread in my hands and watch him make a morning cup of tea. His hands are stiff as he lights the gas stove to boil the water. It's unsettling, seeing him like this. It's a stark contrast from the cheerful man I saw yesterday.

"Knock on the front door when you leave, okay? For luck."

I nod at his words. It's an old superstition, but I understand that he's nervous for me. I am fifteen now, after all. I'll take all the luck I can get.

Fifteen is a dangerous age, the most dangerous in all of the games. Anyone who can do math knows that the Reapings aren't as fair as the Capitol makes them out to be. Statistically, the odds of being chosen for the games should increase arithmetically with age. Only 3.6% of reaped tributes should be twelve years old, all the way up to 25% of tributes being eighteen. The chance of a fifteen year old being chosen should only be 14.3%.

Usually, data like this doesn't lie. Most Reapings should generally follow this pattern, with one in four tributes in the games being an eighteen year old. Yet somehow every year fifteen year olds are reaped more often than any other age category: just last year eight out of the nineteen tributes who did not volunteer were fifteen. That means that one-third of all tributes that year were my age; 19% more fifteen year olds than one would expect.

This trend has been evident in Reapings for years. Everyone suspects the Capitol does this on purpose for entertainment. Maybe their citizens enjoy watching the younger tributes die more than the older ones. It certainly gives the Career districts an advantage- almost all of their tributes are older.

 _Relax, Widget. Even if the draw is rigged, you aren't a factory kid. You don't request any tesserae. Your odds of being chosen are far lower than most girls your age._

To clear my head I decide to take a walk. We don't have to show up at the central stage for another forty minutes, so I figure I should take the opportunity to relax a little before the major nerves kick in.

The clouds are dark in the sky, which probably means it will rain soon. I enjoy the rain. There's a certain peace that comes with it; everything is more relaxed on rainy days. The world just seems to slow down a bit. I always welcome the calmer pace; it's a temporary escape from the usual business of everyday life.

The streets are more crowded today. On Reaping Day, everyone from the outskirts pours into the MSA. This always creates a lot of commotion and displeasure among the Settlement folks. I watch as one woman dressed in what appear to be sewn together rags hopelessly tries to pry her three young children away from a shop window. The kids either don't notice or flat-out ignore her fruitless attempts, instead gazing longingly at the toys I know are behind the glass.

 _You're better off without them, kids,_ I think to myself. _Even we can't afford those, and my family's ten times better off than yours._

The mother succeeds eventually, and the children protest as she drags them down the street.

I decide to head back home. I know I still have a bit of time left before my mother really gets frustrated, but I've done enough people-watching today.

—

Inside my roped-off section I feel like an animal. I watch as a small drop of blood slowly gathers on my skin where the Peacekeeper pricked my finger. It stings a little, but the pinprick of pain gives me something else to focus on.

Around me are the other fifteen year old girls of District Three. Grace is just to my left, and together we wait for our district's escort to come onstage. Most of the other girls around me are all bulbs, people I know from Technical Training. The duds are mostly crowded at the back of the group, aside from a few who shuffle uncomfortably here and there.

I'm not very tall, and as a result can't really see over the heads in front of me. This is why I don't notice when Aeliana Lovett prances on stage, long turquoise hair swishing from side to side with her every step. It takes an elbow to the ribs from Grace for me to finally pay attention.

Aeliana taps the microphone a few times experimentally before greeting us all in her obnoxiously high voice.

"Greetings, District Three! What a fine day it is today!" She declares, letting out a girlish giggle. My eyes meet Grace's dark brown ones, and she shakes her head. It's always the same line with Aeliana, even when the weather is anything but 'fine.'

As if protesting the escort's words, the ray of sunlight surrounding the Capitolian suddenly disappears.

"Oh!" Aeliana looks up at the sky and scowls. Maybe she thinks her expression can change the weather.

"Well, anyway, I have a very special film to show you today! A message straight from the Capitol!" She gestures flamboyantly to the wide screen behind her, where the usual propaganda clip begins to roll. I zone out for most of it; the video is the same every single year. I occasionally register violent images of the Dark Days, wails of despair and the announcer retelling the history of the Games.

 _Someone needs to invent a better way to display the video,_ I think to myself, noting the uneven lighting and faint scratches adorning the thin projection material. _Maybe I'll suggest something when I'm an inventor._

The video comes to an end, and my attention is once again recaptured when Aeliana gestures to the two giant glass bowls sitting off to the side. "And now I say we proceed to the most important part! The part of this ceremony we've all been waiting for: time to select District Three's tributes for the 73rd annual Hunger Games!"

The clacking of the escort's high heels echoes loudly through the the silent crowd. Somewhere behind me a baby cries. All that matters, however, is the glittering hand floating teasingly above the bowl of names.

"Ladies first? Or would the gentlemen like to start us off for a change, hmm?"

Her question receives no answer.

"I don't know about you, District Three, but I say we go for a change of pace this year! Boys first!" With that her hand reaches into the bowl, mixing the names for a few moments before pulling a slip of paper out.

 _Please not Dash_ , is all I have time to think before she reads the name out in a loud voice.

"Clink Jeremy!"

I sigh in relief. Thank goodness it's not Dash.

Everyone's eyes scan the boys, searching for the one unlucky enough to have to go onstage. And die, a smaller voice in my head adds.

Eventually a skinny kid is singled out from the crowd, and the Peacekeepers converge on him immediately. As he stumbles onstage, a wave of pity washes over me. He's young. _Too young._

He's obviously a dud, because no bulb in the district dresses like he does. The boy's shirt and pants appear to be stitched together from many different pieces of cloth, torn in some places.

"Here he is!" Aeliana exclaims as she shoves a microphone in the poor kid's face. He looks like he's about to be sick. "And how old are you, young man?"

"Th-thirteen," the boy stutters. A collective sigh sweeps through the crowd. _Far_ too young.

"Wonderful! Let's give him a hand, everyone!"

She means for us to applaud, I think, but no one here is cruel enough to applaud a child's death.

"Very well, then," Aeliana continues, undeterred, "We will now proceed with the girls!" She reaches into the other glass bowl now, touching paper after paper until finally settling on one.

A fleeting thought enters my head. I realize that I forgot to knock on the front door when I left the house.

There goes the extra luck.

 _The odds are in your favor. Calm down._

"Widget Irving!"

Grace's eyes snap to mine, her jaw dropping. It takes me a moment to process those actions, and by the time I do a small circle has formed around where I stand. The girls around me look at me with fear in their eyes, as if merely being close to me is dangerous.

 _Oh. That's my name. She called my name._

 _I'm a tribute._

This wasn't supposed to happen to me! I'm not even poor or anything!

The Peacekeepers have spotted me now. Their heavy boots leave footprints in the dirt as they dutifully march towards my section. _No! Go away! Leave me alone!_

I need to go onstage. I need to get up there before they can force me to.

My steps are shaky at first, but I manage to right myself. The Peacekeepers surround me now, but still I keep walking. One grabs my arm. I flinch, but make no attempt to yank it away. Everything is in slow motion; I can make out the expressions on the individual faces in the crowd. Most of them are surprised, I think. A bulb hasn't been reaped in five years.

As I pass the boys section, my eyes attempt to seek out Dash. I can't find him. It feels like hours before I reach the edge of the stage, and once there I ascend the small steps and walk to the center of the raised platform. Aeliana grins and drapes a sparkly arm around my shoulders.

"Isn't she precious? How old are you, dear?"

My answer, surprisingly, comes out even. "Fifteen."

"Wonderful! I present to you this year's tributes from District Three: Clink Jeremy and Widget Irving!"

When neither one of us does anything, Aeliana bends down, turquoise eyelash extensions brushing my cheek as she whispers: "Shake hands!"

Reluctantly, I extend my hand to the boy in front of me. He jumps a little, startled by the movement, but returns the gesture. His grip is stronger than I anticipated.

This time the crowd applauds half-heartedly. The sounds of people dispersing soon fill the background. I wish more than anything that I could be one of the people in the crowd, that I could go home and just forget about today.

A hand on my shoulder directs me toward the back of the stage, where I walk through a small doorway. After that we take a path that leads to the district's Justice Building.

The building is, like many buildings in the district, made of concrete. It's two stories tall with barred windows and a tall, metal door. Despite passing the structure almost every day, I've never actually seen the interior.

A Peacekeeper opens the door and turns to me. "In," he barks, holding it open, leaving me to hesitantly make my way inside.

I am led to a small room containing four chairs and a wooden table. The Peacekeeper prompts me to take a seat, so do just that: I sit down and wait. I am no longer in charge of my fate; all I can do for now is wait too see what comes next.

I hear them before I see them. It's hard to keep myself from throwing the door open and meeting them halfway. Something tells me that would be a bad idea, so I force myself to stay seated. Father's voice sounds desperate. "Where is she? Where did you take her? I want to see her now!"

Finally the door to the room is opened, and my family walks in.

I am immediately enveloped in a soul-crushing hug. "Dad!" I gasp.

His whole body shakes in a silent sob. When he releases me, I am left gasping for air. I don't mind. I know this is likely the last time I will see any of them, and I welcome the contact.

Tears are streaming down my mother's face, but she doesn't break. I know she is trying to be strong for me.

A little voice commands my attention.

"Widget, what's wrong?"

One of Coyle's little hands is wrapped around my mother's, and he reaches toward me with the other one. I take it, and look at his face. He's confused; his brow is furrowed, and his tongue is peeking out of the corner of his mouth. He's too young to understand any of this: the Reaping, the Games, the consequences. The innocent way he looks at me breaks my heart. How do I even begin to answer his question?

"I'm going away, Coyle."

"Where are you going? Can I come?"

 _No_ , I think, _never_. _I hope you never have to go._

"I'm sorry, buddy. It's a big-kid thing."

"Oh. When are you coming back?"

I swallow, pushing back tears. "I don't think I'm coming back any time soon."

At this my mother lets out an audible cry of despair; my father only hugs her tightly. Coyle still looks confused, but before he can question me further I add one more thing. "Promise to take care of Mom and Dad for me, Coyle. And keep Dash company, okay?"

My little brother nods. The Peacekeeper in the doorway taps his foot and coughs. "One minute," he warns.

My eyes land on a figure huddled in the corner of the room: Dash. Wordlessly he steps forward, face unreadable.

What happens now? I want to ask. Is this what you wanted?

Even as I think the words I know I don't mean them. We might not get along all the time, but he's still my brother. He loves me, even if he doesn't always know how to show it.

Say something. Anything. Please.

"Widget..." My name hangs in the air, and I can tell he doesn't know what to say next. I decide to help him out by making the first move.

"I love you," I whisper, reaching forward to pull him into a hug. After less than a second he hugs me back. "Love you too," is all he has time to say before a Peacekeeper is ushering my family out of the room. I don't want to let go; I don't want them to leave. Dash presses something against my chest as in lieu of a goodbye.

Then they're gone. I look down at the object; it's a small metal gear on a chain. A makeshift necklace. I recognize it immediately: Dash doesn't leave the house without it.

And now it will be my token in the arena.

 _The arena._

No. I can't let myself think about it. Not here, not now. Later, when I'm alone and no one can judge me.

The Peacekeeper turns to me and gestures for me to leave. When I exit the Justice Building, I find Aeliana waiting outside. Seeing me, she claps her hands and nods toward the train waiting at the station.

"Took you a little while! But that's okay. We're still on schedule, so don't worry. Mr. Latier just insisted that you get as much time as possible in there, but there are much more exciting things to see, in my opinion. My, I hope they serve dinner soon. I am positively starving..."

The escort's chatter is meaningless and shallow. I tune her out as we approach the train, my brain caught on the name Mr. Latier. She's talking about Beetee Latier, of course: District Three's most famous victor. His Games took place before I was born, but everyone in our district's heard the story so many times that we can recall his victory perfectly.

He and Wiress are the only victors we have.

Aeliana and I enter the train's main compartment, and I hear the doors slide closed behind us.

I give myself a moment to absorb my surroundings. Everything about this train looks expensive. A giant high definition TV screen takes up a large portion of the paneled wall to my left, while the floors in this compartment are wooden, with intricate designs carved into the panels. The smell of something delicious permeates the air, and facing the TV is a large table on which an array of small dishes are laid out.

Aeliana notices me staring at the food. "Hungry? Feel free to help yourself to the samplers, dear, but save room for dinner."

 _Those are just the samplers?_

The Capitolian smiles and points to the right. "Down that way you'll find your compartment. It's the second door on the left side. There are clothes in the closet you can change into, but don't take long! Dinner will be served shortly."

Aeliana snatches some sort of circular blue fruit from the table and proceeds to make herself comfortable on a sofa in the corner. I give the dishes a quick once-over, but don't really recognize anything apart from the bread. I don't exactly feel hungry, so I decide to make my way to the compartment Aeliana directed me to.

A short man with ashen skin and glasses exits a compartment opposite mine just as I reach for the door handle. I recognize him, of course, so the words that come out of his mouth next are no surprise. "Oh," the man says, for some reason a bit uncomfortably, "Hi. Uh, I'm Beetee, your mentor."

I reply with the first thing that comes to mind. "I know you," I blurt out. When the older man simply stares at me awkwardly, I backtrack. "I mean, um, I'm Widget."

Beetee nods. "I'll see you at dinner then, Widget," he half-mumbles, shuffling away. I stare after him for a few seconds before coming to my senses and yanking my compartment door open.

The room is spacious, but I don't give myself time to look at the decor.

Flinging the door shut behind me, I collapse on the bed with a sob. Only now does reality come crashing down on me.

I'm going to die. Everything I've worked towards, every person I tried so hard to impress, every grueling programming lesson, every hopeless argument I've had with Dash, every conversation with Grace... It all amounts to nothing.

My whole life has led to nothing.

This wasn't supposed to happen to me! I had a plan, a future! _I was supposed to meet Inventor Nimb tomorrow..._

I can't bring myself to get changed, or even sit up. For now I just remain sprawled out on the bed, my tears staining the sheets.

—

 **A/N:** _I hope this was okay! Comments appreciated. I got the statistics about Reapings from this Jezebel article called "An Incredibly Detailed Super Statistical Hunger Games Survival Analysis." It was a great article with a lot of cool data from the books. Also, thanks for the review! It made me really happy :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The Capitol and the Victory** **Tour**

 **A/N:** _Chapter Three! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. I really love reading what people think of the story. It's been really fun to write so far, and has given me an excuse to re-read the series! :)_

* * *

The knock on my door is so subtle that I almost don't hear it. I am tempted to ignore the sound; maybe if I pretend that I'm sleeping, whoever's there will get bored and walk away. It always works with Dash.

To my annoyance, the knocking only becomes louder. Whoever's standing outside the door is a hell of a lot more persistent than my older brother.

I drag myself out of bed, combing my hair with my fingers as I slouch to the compartment door.

"Who is it?" I ask, hand on the doorknob.

"Widget, dear? It's Aeliana. You've been in there for quite a while, and dinner's just been served! We're all waiting on your company!"

The thought of eating anything right now makes me want to throw up, but I know I'm going to have to face everyone sooner or later. Besides, something tells me that holing up in my compartment all evening would make a bad impression. I haven't even introduced myself to everyone.

The voice of my mother inside my head is already scolding me for my bad behavior. ' _Widget Irving!_ ' she exclaims, ' _Where are your manners? Is that how you show respect?'_

"Sorry, Mom," I mutter under my breath. Then louder I reply, "I'll be out in a second!"

I hear the unmistakable clack of high heels retreating down the hall and exhale. Now that I've calmed down slightly, I give myself a moment to take in my surroundings. The compartment is easily twice the size of my and Dash's room back in Three. The bed is bigger than anything I've ever seen; my whole family could easily fit and still have wiggle room. A TV much like the one in the main compartment is mounted on the wall opposite the bed, its remote control placed delicately on the nightstand.

When I turn to the left I see a giant wardrobe, its wooden doors carved with floral patterns. I assume the clothes Aeliana mentioned are in there, but I don't reach for them just yet. Apart from Dash's necklace, my Reaping dress is the only thing I have from home. Taking it off right now would feel like saying yet another goodbye, and I'm not prepared to bid anything else farewell right now.

There's another door next to the wardrobe, and when opened a spacious adjoining bathroom is revealed to me. The shower has about a million different buttons and nozzles that I can't wrap my head around at the moment, so I instead choose to inspect my face in the mirror above the sink.

I don't look very good. My eyes are puffy from crying, and the hair I so carefully brushed this morning is now a knotted mess. _Not much you can do about it now,_ I reason, opting to simply splash some cold water on my face and finger-brush my unruly locks to the best of my abilities. All I can hope for is that the people waiting at the table don't read too much into my appearance.

I take one last deep breath and leave my compartment behind, making my way determinedly to the dining table. Four pairs of eyes look up as I approach, following me as I take the only remaining seat in between Beetee and Aeliana.

Wiress, the other District Three mentor, sits directly across from me. I see her exchange a quick glance with Beetee before turning to me and smiling.

"Widget, right? We've been waiting for you."

Not knowing how to reply, I just smile back. Hopefully it doesn't appear too strained.

"Can we eat now? I'm hungry," whines the other tribute boy. Clink, that's what his name was. Unlike me, he's changed out of his Reaping clothes. The shirt he wears now is collared and bright green, obviously the work of the Capitol.

"Yes, now that we are all here, I do say we begin," chimes the escort.

All at once the people around me begin reaching for things. Despite my earlier queasiness, my stomach lets out a grumble and I involuntarily scan the items hungrily. There are so many things I don't recognize that I'm not sure where to begin.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and my eyes snap to Beetee, who gestures to the array of dishes before us.

"It's all edible. Don't worry," he assures me in a quiet voice. "I had the same reaction when I first saw this stuff."

In the end I opt for a few pieces of some very red meat, coated in a sauce that smells like cinnamon. I also grab a few bread rolls and pieces of fruit cut into little star-shaped slices.

Yes. This is clearly Capitol food.

We all eat in relative silence for the most part. Eventually Wiress decides to turn on the TV, and our eyes all turn to the screen. The scene looks familiar; it takes me longer than it should to realize they're replaying footage of the Reapings.

"Oh, they're already on District Eight," Aeliana groans. She impatiently picks up the remote and presses a button, causing the footage onscreen to rewind. "I want to see the crop from One. Celestina couldn't stop flaunting her promotion the other day. You should have seen her! 'Finally a District that isn't starving to death,' she said. Can you believe the nerve of some people?"

The TV now shows a much more glamorous stage. A woman with pink hair piled monstrously high on top of her head waltzes on, flashing the cameras a dazzling smile before introducing herself.

"There she is! What a witch," Aeliana spits venemously. I can't help but think that this Celestina woman must have done something other than brag. Our escort eyes the screen with more hatred than I thought she was capable of.

The tributes from One are both volunteers, and both manage to make an impression. Not only is the girl breathtakingly beautiful, but she knows it. She walks up onstage like she's royalty. Her Reaping dress is emerald green and exudes elegance; once centerstage, she flips her strawberry blonde hair and gazes at the crowd with a satisfied look on her face.

The boy's name is Flash, and he looks just like every other boy from the district of luxury: tall, handsome, and powerful. After jumping onstage and hugging the escort, he points directly at the camera and winks. _He winks._ This is definitely someone who's been wanting a victory in the Games for his entire life.

District Two's tributes don't put up as much of a show. Once again, both are volunteers: the girl is tall and made of solid muscle. She is eager to speak into the mic after taking her place onstage.

"My name is Zandria Hall!" She declares proudly. The boy is just as bulky. He smirks knowingly at his District partner as they shake hands and then face the crowd to give a loud cheer.

"They sure know how to excite a crowd, One and Two," Beetee says casually.

When the familiar central stage of District Three appears onscreen, I avert my eyes. I don't need to see this part. I was there; I can remember everything with perfect clarity.

When I finally look up again the camera is already cutting away to a different scene, but I catch a glimpse of my face before I vanish. I look terrified.

Only one of District Four's tributes this year is a volunteer: a wiry boy with olive skin and eyes that sparkle with mirth. The girl, on the other hand, is small, so petite that I thought for sure she had to be twelve. I'm surprised when she tells the escort that she is, in fact, fifteen years old.

I sigh. Yet another fifteen year old to add to the data set.

"Four must be going through a lapse," Wiress remarks quietly. Beetee nods, while Clink just stares at them, confused.

"A lapse? What do you mean?" The boy inquires.

Beetee looks at him and begins to explain. "Four's training academy isn't as extensive as One's or Two's. It's smaller, and they don't always have enough kids to fill it. What probably happened this year is that none of the girls in training were ready for the Games, so they didn't have a volunteer to send out."

This explanation surprises me. I had always considered One, Two, and Four to be equally dangerous. It makes sense, though; I can recall far more victors from One and Two than I can from Four.

"That's good, right?" There's a flicker of hope in my District partner's eyes. I can tell that he is desperate for some sort of good news after all that's happened today. I empathize with him; I crave the same thing.

"It's one less trained tribute to worry about, yes," my mentor replies carefully. I assume he doesn't want to give the boy false hope, and I admire him for that. Meaningless words of encouragement would only make me feel worse right now.

"It means they'll have better tributes next year," Wiress finishes.

The rest of the tributes aren't very noteworthy. Districts Five through Eight all contribute kids who, more than anything, look afraid. The girl from Seven has muscles, but the nervous way she takes the stage cancels out any intimidation factor she might have had.

There is one other tribute, however, who surprises everyone.

District Nine is usually one of the least noteworthy when it comes to Reapings: year after year their tributes are frail and petrified. Most don't make it past the Bloodbath. The girl reaped there is seventeen, skinny and looks like she's about to pass out. It's a pitiful sight, but an expected one.

The boy reaped looks younger and is equally scared out of his wits. After the draw the escort, as per usual protocol, asks for volunteers. In District Nine volunteers are almost always nonexistent, as is the case with pretty much every district that doesn't train their tributes.

However, this year a voice rings out clearly from somewhere in the crowd.

"I volunteer!"

The cameras capture the astonished looks of the people watching the ceremony, the heads turning, everyone searching for the one foolhardy enough to speak the words that most would consider unspeakable.

Finally a boy steps forward. The cameras zoom in on his face, allowing the audience to see the devious smile he wears. His hair is jet black, his eyes a piercing blue. His gaze is cold and calculating. He doesn't look like your classic volunteer from One or Two; he's by no means bulky, and while he isn't ugly, there isn't anything that sets him apart as being strikingly handsome.

What makes him scary is the bloodthirstiness behind those eyes. This is a boy who will not hesitate to end someone's life.

The boy who's name was actually called out collapses onstage, crying out words of thanks. The Peacekeepers have to haul him to his feet, and the cameras show a crying little girl in the crowd running up and throwing her arms around him.

For a moment I am relieved. This boy has been spared for another year. He wouldn't have lasted very long in the arena.

Then I catch myself. Weaklings in the arena are good. That boy wouldn't have posed a significant threat, but his replacement sure will.

"Wasn't he something? Delta finally has something different this year."

It takes a lot of self restraint to keep myself from punching Aeliana in that made up little face of hers.

Beetee and Wiress are stunned. "That was... interesting," my mentor finally says, his voice somewhat awestruck.

I push my plate away and stand up. "I think I'll go to bed now. I'm not hungry anymore."

The shower here is unlike anything I've ever experienced. The water comes in heavy jets, and I can't help but wonder if it would be possible to drown.

Would drowning be less painful than a knife to the belly? To being mauled by muttations? To being beaten to death with a club, as one of District Three's tributes was a few years back?

Probably.

I turn the water off. I've had enough of showering.

I throw the wardrobe doors open and fish out some sort of lacy nightgown. When I put the garment on it feels soft against my skin. So do the fluffy blankets when I climb into bed.

The exhaustion from the day's events finally catches up to me, and I fall into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

—

I wake up to someone shaking my shoulder, and for a second I am back home in Three. "Get up!" My mother demands. She hates it when I oversleep. I'm only home from PATT on the weekends, and she sees sleeping as a waste of our time together.

But that voice... It does not belong to my mother. And the blankets encompassing me are far too soft to be my own.

When I open my eyes I am staring into the impatient face of my escort, who stops shaking me once she sees that I am awake.

"We're pulling into the Remake Center. Be dressed and ready in five minutes." With that Aeliana leaves the room, and as she does I note that her shoes aren't as pointy today.

It doesn't take me long to get dressed, but still I find everyone else already waiting in the main compartment when I arrive.

"We're in the Capitol already?" I ask Beetee, who is staring out the window vacantly. "These trains are fast," he murmurs, without looking at me. "250 miles an hour. Although we did have to refuel once."

When I finally look outside, I am astonished by what I see. There are people everywhere. They are dressed in all sorts of bright colors and styles. A large portion wave desperately at us as we pass by, screaming things I can't hear from behind the glass.

Then everything goes dark, and I realize we've pulled into our destination.

"What happens now?" Clink asks nervously.

"Now," Beetee answers, "You are transformed into better versions of your usual selves."

Beetee is odd in the way he speaks. It's as if he is constantly worried about something; he's nervous and twitchy, always looking over his shoulder. Unless the subject has anything to do with electricity. I've seen him interviewed in past days; when asked about his victory the man's nervous persona vanishes completely. Beetee won his Games by creating an electric trap which killed off his competition. It was the first win for our district, and the first time a strategy involving complex technology was ever really used successfully.

"Oh, you two will look so wonderful after they're through with you!" Aeliana looks very enthusiastic about the whole thing. She's been our District's escort for eight years, and must have seen many tributes go through the same process. How she can act this excited when she knows exactly what's coming beats me.

Before long Clink and I exit the train and are led through a series of similar looking hallways. He is deposited in his room first, while I am taken a bit further before being dropped off.

The next three hours are grueling. A team of bizarrely tattooed Capitolians strip me, analyze me and then proceed to remove just about every hair on my body that isn't on my head or face.

At one point one of them prods my eyebrows with distaste. "There's nothing there!" She complains, "We're going to have to ink them."

Her colleague nods, and then a long, vibrating needle hovers above my face. "Wh-what? What's-" I panic.

The stylist cuts me off. "Your eyebrows are a bit too sparse. Hold still!"

There is a faint stinging sensation, but it's bearable. The Capitol must have very high standards. Never in my life have I heard anyone say anything about unattractive eyebrows, of all things.

By the time they are finished with me I am already hungry again. The apple I ate hurriedly on the train this morning seems like so long ago, and I wonder what delicacies I'll be given for lunch.

"Now stay right there. Your stylist will be here shortly."

The prep team leaves, and I shuffle a bit in my seat. I am naked, but strangely do not feel self-conscious. These people clean tributes up for a living; they have probably seen far worse than me.

A woman with glittery bronze hair enters. So this is my stylist, I think. She doesn't look any different from the other glitzy Capitol women. The only thing that sets her apart is the air of authority she possesses.

"Stand up," she commands brusquely. When I do she taps her foot impatiently, eyeing me up and down. "At least you're not emaciated this year. The one they gave me last year was so skinny that everything we dressed her in kept slipping off."

Her comments are cruel, and I have to remind myself that I am not a person in her eyes. All tributes are just projects to these people, no more than characters in an annual TV drama. The girl she's talking about -the one from last year- was a scrawny factory dud who had four little sisters her parents had to feed. She died in the bloodbath, killed by the District Four boy who would go on to get third place. At least her parents didn't have to look her killer in the eyes on the Victory Tour.

I hope mine don't.

The thought of my family standing onstage, forced to listen to the victor give an impersonal speech written about me by some Capitol official, brings tears to my eyes. My mother will probably cry. My father will try to comfort her, but he too will be fighting back tears. Dash will glare at the victor, probably wishing he could punch him or her in the nose. And Coyle...

He'll be four by then. He won't understand how a stranger standing onstage knows my name, talks about me like we knew each other.

I wonder how long until he forgets me. Nobody remembers things from when they were three, and in time he likely won't remember my face. He'll know he had a sister, of course, but she'll be nothing to him other than a tragic story.

That idea is the saddest of all.

The stylist leaves me to go sort something out with her colleague, and I put the thin robe given to me by my prep team back on. Shortly after, a man in red comes in with a tray of food. He places it on a small table in front of me, then leaves with a bow.

The food is good, but what food here isn't? It's a rich stew that smells heavenly. I bite down on some sort of meat and sigh happily.

After I finish eating, my prep team returns. I am told it is time to get dressed for the Victory Tour.

"But that's not for hours!" I exclaim.

One of the women rolls her eyes. "Fashion takes time. Not that you'd understand. Come now, your stylist is waiting across the hall with your dress."

I spend the next few hours being manhandled once again. Everything is fitted with careful precision. I'm not in view of a mirror and getting a good look at the dress is impossible with how fast everyone is fluttering about, so I don't really know how it looks. I'm not really optimistic about it, though.

Over the years District Three's stylists have consistently stuck with a factory theme. Although relevant to our district's industry, the outfits don't usually endear us to sponsors. Two years ago both tributes were dressed in gray boxes with all sorts of buttons and knobs stuck to the sides. The symbolism was clear- technology and all that- but the getup looked ridiculous.

I'm not sure how long I stand there with my prep team, but eventually one of them glances at her wrist and grumbles something about not having enough time. Hearing this, my stylist stands up and gives me a once-over. "Not too bad. Someone curl her hair, then send her off."

Minutes later my prep team is finished with me. "Can I see it now?" I ask my stylist, who nods and points to a mirror at the other end of the room.

It takes all of my willpower to not rip the whole thing off when I see it.

This is the fashion I was told takes so much time?

The dress is gray, which I knew already because I had glimpsed parts of it as the team was dressing me. That in itself isn't so bad, but these people just _had_ to go and add things. There are coils and bolts seemingly woven into the fabric. Gears are randomly stuck on in places, and there is an odd patch of shimmery black fabric on my left shoulder.

"That part represents factory smoke," one of the women behind me chimes in, seeing my fixation with that particular spot. I simply nod in reply, too horrified to say anything.

My shoes are simple gray flats to match the dress, and I even have a headdress made of long looping wire.

The ensemble is hideous.

I can't complain, though. It's not like that would change anything, anyway.

My stylist leads the way to the bottom level of the Remake Center, where most of the other tributes are already waiting. This is the first time I've seen any of them aside from Clink in person. Most are hidden beneath layers of clothing, so making out things like body shape is difficult.

I can afford to think about that later. I'll spend three days training with them, after all.

District Three's chariot is near the front of the line. We have just about the worst position in the line because we're so quickly forgotten. Districts One, Two and Four are always crowd favorites, and we're unlucky enough to be sandwiched in the middle. Overlooked.

Clink's outfit is no better than mine. His stylist went for a more robotic theme; he's dressed in what looks like a dark gray pre-Panem spacesuit, like the ones you read about in history books. It's complete with a stupid-looking glass dome covering his head.

"Nice outfit," I comment. Clink just looks at me and shakes his head, pointing to his ears.

"Can't hear you over the sound of my own breathing in here!" he yells.

The time for talking is quickly over as the anthem starts to play loudly. All of the sudden two giant doors open at the front of the lineup, and District One's chariot rolls out into the crowd.

I can see their chariot being broadcasted on the giant screens above the crowd. They look stunning, as expected.

When our horses begin to pull us forward I finally see everything. There are so many people! They reach over the sides of barriers, shouting and calling our names. Most of the attention and excitement is directed at Four behind us, but I hear my name more than once.

"Widget! Clink!" one woman screams. "I love you!"

These Capitol people make me want to shake my head in disbelief. _You can't love me_ , I think, you _don't even know me. You can't wait to see me die onscreen._

The chariots eventually pull to a stop in front of President Snow's mansion. I take a moment to look at the other tributes around me. Aside from One, Two and Four, the costumes are for the most part pretty ugly. The tributes from Seven are both dressed in tree costumes; Eight's tributes wear clothes that resemble patchwork quilts. Ten's stylists this year have dressed them up as farm animals, while Twelve's tributes wear baggy oversized miner getup.

Nine's aren't bad. The girl looks sweet, wearing a dress made from woven strands of wheat. The boy wears a similar outfit, but with a Grecian-style wheat crown adorning his head. Somehow he makes it look intimidating.

As if sensing my gaze, the boy turns his head and meets my stare with those deadly blue eyes. I feel the blood drain from my face as my breath catches in my throat. Scared, I quickly look away.

Snow begins his usual speech about the significance of the event, welcoming us all to the Capitol. I can't focus on his words. Somehow without looking I can feel the boy from Nine watching me intently, and my suspicions are confirmed when I chance a look to my left. Sure enough, his gaze is still trained on me; our eyes meet once again and he smiles unsettlingly.

When the parade is over we head to the Training Center, our home until the arena. Aeliana rides the elevator with us to the third floor, along with Beetee and Wiress. When we step out of the elevator, Beetee pats me on the back.

"Good job out there."

I snort. "Are you kidding? That outfit was awful!"

"It wasn't...the best," he admits. "But you made the best of a crappy situation. That's all anyone can really ask for."

I like Beetee. He's down-to-earth; he doesn't try to make things sound better than they are. And somehow he's still sane after seeing almost sixty of his tributes die.

"It's a big day tomorrow. Get changed. Shower. Eat. Get some sleep. In the morning we'll talk more about...things," he finishes.

"Okay," I say, heading to my room. The shower feels amazing, and I'm grateful to wash off all of the makeup from today. I manage to get rid of everything except the eyebrows; those are still darker and bushier than before. I wonder if they tattooed them or something.

It doesn't look bad, so I don't mind that much. Pulling on some more comfortable clothes, I head to the dining room for dinner. Beetee's right: it's going to be a big day tomorrow. I just hope I don't embarrass myself too much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Training**

 **A/N** : _Here it is! This was harder to write for some reason. I think it's because I'm so excited to get to the Games already, and the stuff in between seems less interesting in comparison. Big thanks to me friend Mihica, who edited this for me!_

* * *

Breakfast in the Training Center is just as wonderful as the other meals I've eaten so far in the Capitol. There are countless dishes to choose from: some of them are sweet, some savory, some sour, and some are even spicy. Spicy food is practically unheard of in Three, but isn't uncommon here. Capitolians hold a certain fondness for spiced beverages, which is how I accidentally mix up the hot chocolate with the 'Extra Hot Chocolate,' and end up spitting the liquid all over myself.

When Aeliana looks at me disapprovingly, I shrug helplessly. "It's spicy," I defend my actions. "How was I supposed to know it's spicy? I can't take spicy things."

After breakfast, the seriousness of the day sets in. Wiress looks at Beetee with a question in her eyes, and my mentor nods his head in response.

"Clink, dear, why don't you come with me," she says to my District partner.

"Alright, but can I grab one more croissant?"

The woman smiles and gives a small laugh. "Boys," she chuckles, "Always hungry. Very well, but don't take too long."

When Clink does things like this - grab an extra croissant, crack a lame joke, complain about his outfit - I am reminded that he's just a kid. He's only thirteen. His life hasn't even started, and in a few days it's probably going to be over.

Just like mine.

Clink eventually leaves the room with a number of breakfast pastries stuffed down his shirt, and then it's just Beetee and me sitting at the table.

"Alright. We have to figure out your strategy for today."

I gulp nervously. _Oh, boy._

"You're a bulb, right? You aren't as skinny as factory kids usually are, and the clothes you wore to the Reaping weren't very raggedy."

I nod. "I finished twelve years at Technical Training. I was supposed to start my apprenticeship at the end of the year."

At this Beetee raises an eyebrow. "You're fifteen and you've finished at PATT?"

"Yeah," I reply sheepishly.

My mentor whistles. "An inventor, huh?"

"I wanted to be one. Before this."

Beetee says nothing, only pushing on the bridge of his glasses. I don't need a reply; the look he sends me is enough. It's a look that says, _I'm sorry that this happened to you. I'm sorry you're going to die before doing anything with your life._

That look says all of the things he's not allowed to say out loud.

"Well," he continues, "I don't suppose you have any experience with weapons?"

I shake my head. "None."

"Yeah, that's usually the case. But listen-" Beetee leans in closer, staring at me intently. "Weapons aren't everything. You finished PATT early. If you were really going to become an inventor, I'd be willing to bet you're smarter than every other tribute in this building combined."

"Smart doesn't always win."

"Smart without a plan doesn't always win. When you get in that room, everyone will be trying to impress each other like crazy. They'll all head straight for the biggest, flashiest weapons."

"Okay..."

"So don't do that. It'll only hurt you in the long run. You'll get scared; it'll mess with your head. Survival is what will give you an edge in this competition. Spend some time learning how to stay alive for as long as possible."

"Meaning...?"

"Snares. Knots. Making fishhooks. Plant identification. Starting fires, building shelters. That sort of stuff."

"I've never needed to know how to do any of that."

"You'll learn fast. You have to; you don't have a choice."

I know he's right. I don't have the luxury of time to help me master all of these skills; it's learn or die. Barbaric acts of violence don't always win. Dehydration and hypothermia are also big killers in the Games.

Beetee gives the words a second to sink in, then continues. "When you're tired of that, try your hand at knife throwing or something. A little bit of self-defense will come in handy. But stay away from the big weapons."

"Sounds doable."

The advice is solid. Year after year District Three is at an inherent disadvantage. Our tributes aren't athletic. We're not survivors. We weren't born and raised in the wilderness, knowing edible plants like the back of our hands. Most of the kids Reaped are assembly line workers in a factory. PATT teaches you coding, programming, and occasionally genetic engineering. None of these skills help you in the arena.

Most of the others have a head start. They probably won't have to devote time to memorizing which plants will poison them to death, or how to start a basic fire. I have to learn everything from scratch.

Before long Aeliana's once again herding Clink and I to the elevator. I was too tired to appreciate it last night, but now as she presses the button down to the basement I admire the elegant piece of machinery. District Three doesn't produce elevators; we only help improve existing designs. Six does the actual construction of these machines. Still, the apprentice side of me can't help but admire the way the apparatus lowers us ever-so-gracefully, the way all of the separate parts noiselessly work together in perfect harmony to perform this descent. It's a beautiful thing.

We reach the basement, and Clink and I step out.

"Well, here we are. Good luck you two!" Aeliana beams, waving Clink and me goodbye as the elevator doors close in front of her face.

The sounds of several people talking can be heard from somewhere to our right. "Must be over there," Clink nods in the direction of the noise, and we quickly make our way over. The sounds increase in volume until we find ourselves standing in the entrance to the training room.

We aren't late, but even so almost every other tribute seems to already be assembled here and waiting. A few look up at us as we enter, but quickly look away. Why should they stare? Clink and I are some of the least intimidating people here.

A woman in a jumpsuit coughs pointedly, and the room goes silent. "Thank you." She looks around the room, taking in each and every one of us before continuing. "My name is Atala, and I am the head trainer here. Over the next three days you will spend your time preparing for the challenges you will face in the arena. Before you may begin, however, there are some rules I must make clear."

The rules are mostly things that, to me at least, are obvious. No unnecessary aggression. No hogging stations for too long. No fighting with other tributes.

Still, there are some audible groans from one side of the room. I want to roll my eyes. Of course the Career tributes would protest not being able to fight prematurely. Each and every one of them is probably itching to get some blood on their hands.

When we are finally dismissed to train as we please, most tributes make a beeline for the weapons stations. My mentor was right when he said those would be the most crowded. The tributes from One, Two and Four dominate the swords and knives, expertly stabbing and decapitating dummies while the others watch on, intimidated.

Just as I decide to head over to the empty fire starting station, Clink takes a few steps in the opposite direction. I stare at him walking away, puzzled, when I realize where he's going.

He's making his way over to the weapons stations! Why on Earth would he do that? Didn't Wiress tell him not to? Granted, I didn't actually hear Wiress' advice to him; I just assumed his strategy would be the same as mine. We're mostly in the same boat: neither one of us is very strong, and I'm pretty sure his weapons experience is the same as mine - that is to say, nonexistent.

"Clink!" I call out to him. Upon hearing his name he whirls around, shooting me a glare. The hostility in his voice is unmistakable as he hisses, "What? What do you want?"

My expression goes from confusion to shock. Why is he mad at me? "Where are you going?" I ask. He rolls his eyes in response.

"Weapons. Duh." With that, my District partner walks away without a second glance.

"I don't need you, anyway," I mutter under my breath. More people at the other side of the gym mean less distractions at the survival stations.

Starting fires is _hard_. At first glance, I though this station would be easy: I've watched tributes from games in the past do this same activity dozens of times. They make it look effortless; a few twigs, some dry leaves, friction...right?

No matter how hard I try I just can't seem to get the damn thing to light. The instructor tells me I need to press harder on the twigs, but my fingers already hurt from the continuous pressure. I sigh as yet another twig snaps between my fingers, unlit. The best I've managed to get is slightly warm; I haven't even accomplished smoke.

I must have spent more than an hour on that station, hopelessly trying to produce something that resembles fire. Eventually a shadow is cast over my work; I look up to see a pale girl with dark hair analyzing me. Her brown eyes are narrowed in concentration as she assesses the way my fingers curl around the wood. A piece of cloth pinned to her shoulder has the number twelve sewn on it.

"Your angle is all wrong." She crouches down and takes the twig from my hands, kneeling above the bigger slab of wood where I've carved a small hole out with a knife. I watch as she rolls the twig between her palms, applying continuous pressure to the slab on the ground just as I've been doing. Except she tackles the work from a slight angle, pressing and pressing until a trail of smoke rises from the hole. Soon the smoke gets more potent, and a few sparks follow. Eventually this girl creates a small flame which she extinguishes before it can grow.

Wordlessly, I copy her actions. It takes me a few tries, but after five minutes or so a little fire comes to life on my wooden slab. I extinguish it with my boot and stare at the girl in admiration.

"You've got it. Remember the angle," she says, staring at me for a moment before turning away, heading off to some or another station.

I am grateful for this girl's help, but a large part of me is suspicious of her intentions. District Twelve did not stand out to me during the Reapings; I barely paid attention to their tributes when they took the stage. The girl could easily pass for a factory worker from Three, what with her small build and weak appearance. Still, there's an intensity to her gaze that frightens me. She looks as if she knows something the rest of us don't, like she's hiding something underneath the frailty.

I decide to adopt a new stance on tributes. From now on, everyone is a threat until proven otherwise.

The instructor at the snare station is staring into space, a look of pure boredom on his face. When he sees me approach he brightens, beckoning me with a smile. His station must not be very popular.

Over the next twenty minutes I learn three different kinds of hunting snares, but am only good at one of them. He also teaches me a snare that can dangle an opponent in the air by the ankle.

When I finish up with snares there are only ten minutes left until lunch, and I decide not to immerse myself in a new station just yet. I take the opportunity to scope out my competition.

The weapons stations are still very crowded. Clink is right in the center, unsuccessfully trying to hit a dummy with a throwing spear. His thin arms just don't have the strength necessary to propel it; the spear stops short three feet from the target, clattering to the floor. The boy from Two snickers and says something that makes the tributes around him laugh, and Clink's face burns a bright red. He stomps away from them while they continue to snicker at his expense.

Why are you doing this to yourself, Clink? Why make yourself look vulnerable like that?

The girl from District Seven, who I dismissed on accounts of being a nervous wreck at the Reaping, is throwing axes at targets with deadly accuracy. The terrified persona has vanished; in its place is a girl who looks almost bored as a flick of her wrist sends an axe that splits a dummy up the middle. Even the Careers regard her with something akin to respect.

Yet another reminder not to underestimate people.

My eyes scan the room, looking for the girl who approached me before. I spy her on the ropes course, jumping swiftly from platform to platform above everyone's heads. She's harnessed in so she won't fall, but I still wince when her foot slips and she's left dangling in midair.

"Attention, tributes. It is time for lunch. Please proceed to the lunchroom," a voice echoes over a loudspeaker. At once people begin to put down their weapons and make their way out to the hall. Zandria from Two gives her sword one final swing, slicing a dummy in half before joining the rest of the Careers triumphantly.

Pretty soon I am alone in the room. I should really join the others; I am hungry, and lunch is when all of the alliances are formed between tributes. I'm only hurting myself by remaining here.

But the weapons stations have been crowded all day, and who knows when I'll get a chance like this again? I know Beetee told me to steer clear of the big weapons, but it's not like anyone's watching or anything. What if I turn out to have a knack for spears or swords, and I just don't know it yet?

I make my way over to the throwing knives and pick one up, turning it over in my hands. It's surprisingly light, and I can see my reflection in the blade. Not really knowing anything about the technique, I count to three in my head and throw the knife at the wall, hoping for the best. It goes too far left, hitting the wall and clattering to the floor. It's almost as bad as Clink's performance, except he didn't have the sense to fail away from prying eyes.

My aim improves a little with the second throw, and by the fourth I actually manage to hit the target. The blade doesn't stick, but at least I've made an improvement.

Archery is a bust. The arrows, when I finally get them to fly, are weak and don't hit anything. It's a shame, really; the bow is the finest weapons here. It's expertly designed: the strings are made of thin glaetium wire, perfect for increasing stability, accuracy and firing power. This, combined with the sharpened steel arrowheads, makes the bow a deadly weapon if placed in the right hands.

After my third failed spear throw I end up simply admiring the weapons rather than using them. There's a rack of shields next to the station, but I haven't seen anyone use them. Shields are cumbersome things; who has the time or energy to carry a shield while running from an attacker? These things aren't light enough for anyone as un-muscly as me. These shields are made of solid ceplumite, the smallest weighing at least six pounds.

Oh how I wish I'd had access to these materials back in Three... Heaven only knows what I could have created with a block of ceplumite or glaetium back home. The only time I even got to touch metals that powerful was in a special experiment at the end of my eighth year at PATT. It was one of the only memorable things that happened at the institution. I loved fooling around with the powerful glaetium magnets.

A voice startles me from my daydreaming, and my blood runs cold. Hadn't I been alone?

"You've stopped throwing things."

I slowly turn around, my eyes instantly connecting with those pale blue orbs I'd analyzed again and again in my head.

He leans casually against the wall as he speaks, a knife much like the one I'd been throwing before in his hand. He twirls the blade like one might a pencil, the movement just effortless enough to be intimidating. Without breaking eye contact, he lifts the thing and sends it whizzing across the room with the smallest movement of his wrist. My eyes widen in shock as the blade embeds itself in a dummy's chest mere feet away from where I stand.

"Honestly, you didn't seem like the weapon type. I wondered why the heck you'd want to stay behind."

When I don't answer, the boy slinks towards me. He stops a small distance away from my position. "You don't look like you're trying to practice very much. Care to tell me what's so interesting about those shields you were looking at?"

He's been watching me this whole time. Why should he care, though? I'm no threat to him.

Still looking at me he yawns, stretching his right arm behind his head and momentarily hiding the red number nine I know is on his shoulder.

"Hmm? Don't feel like talking? What, cat got your tongue?"

I'm not quite sure what to do in this situation. He's already seen my incompetence; it isn't like I've revealed anything he didn't probably suspect already. How would I even reply? _Oh, I just really like looking at the shield's metal. It looks pretty solid, if I do say so myself._ It sounds stupid when I put it like that.

The silence grows, and I can't stand it. With every passing second I feel those eyes burning deeper, picking me apart from the inside out.

"I find the designs interesting. That's all." I try to tone down the fear I know colors my voice. The other tribute raises an eyebrow, clearly doubting my words.

"Oh really?" he questions. He drags a chair over from a different station and sits, propping his chin up with one hand. "I read about District Three. Real smart, some of 'em. Pull the whackiest electrical stunts, if they make it past the Bloodbath."

What is this guy playing at? There's got to be a reason for all of this talk. He's hinting at - no, _accusing_ me of something - but I haven't figured it out. Does he think I'm hiding something? That I have a strategy?

I have no idea how to proceed in the arena. Of course, he doesn't know that.

Wait, why am I scared of him, exactly? Sure, his eyes are unsettling. He acts like he knows more than he does, and talks like he's leading you into a trap. But can't two play at that game?

I decide to change my angle. Let him think I have something up my sleeve - what's the harm? Maybe, just maybe, he'll think twice about taking me out if it comes to that in the arena. Who's to say I'm not secretly a Beetee or Wiress?

"I've read about District Nine. Real weak, most of them. Don't usually make it past the Bloodbath, and certainly can't handle weapons."

I've surprised him, I can tell. There's a flash of shock on his face, but it is quickly replaced by a smirk. "I guess we're both full of surprises."

We? Who said anything about me? He isn't treating me like one would expect a skilled competitor to treat a weakling. He's acting like I pose a threat to him - like I'm a contender. Although he does still frighten me, the knowledge that someone thinks I'm worth being careful around makes me glow a little bit on the inside.

There are so many questions I have about this boy. Who is he? Where did he learn how to throw knives like that? What's his name?

But most importantly, why did he volunteer? That's the biggest question of all. He must have some sort of motive for joining these Games. No one from his District ever volunteers like he did. The Games aren't something most think are worth volunteering for.

And as he sits there, analyzing me, I can't help but ask it. "No one volunteers from Nine. Why did you?"

Immediately his expression transforms into something venomous. "That doesn't matter," he spits out. "All that matters is the plan I know you're hatching."

So he _does_ think I have a plan.

"Why would I ever tell you?"

All at once the anger vanishes, and the smirk returns. "I suppose you're right. It doesn't matter, anyway. You won't live long enough to execute it."

With that, he stands up and begins to walk away.

Who the hell is this boy?

"Who are you, anyways?" I shout after him.

He stops in his tracks, but doesn't look back. "My name is Amaranth." I can hear the satisfaction in his voice as he adds, "But my friends call me Ranther."

When I finally make it to the lunchroom I sit as far away from him as possible.

—

Lunch is relatively uneventful. There aren't any concrete alliances as of yet aside from the Career pack, but Clink spends twenty minutes having a one-sided conversation with the boy from Ten, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

When it's obvious the other boy won't reply any time soon, my District partner switches to trying to chat up the boy from Six. He gets a few nods, but not much else in terms of conversation.

Why is Clink trying to be conversational now? Can't he tell no one is in the mood?

Unless...

Something clicks in my brain. I might not have been there when Wiress gave him a strategy, but I suspect I know what she told him. Clink is the youngest competitor here at thirteen. Apart from maybe the girls from Six and Twelve, he's also the smallest and the scrawniest. With no weapon ability or survival skill, he doesn't stand a chance in the arena. Wiress must know that he can't survive on his own.

He's trying to score an alliance.

It all makes sense now - heading straight into the crowd even though he can't wield anything, making conversation in the lunchroom. Brushing me off when I tried to talk to him. He doesn't want to associate himself with me anymore than he has to - when it comes down to it, I'm not the type who can provide food or protection in the arena.

Even my scrawny little district partner doesn't think I stand a chance.

That's not true. The boy from Nine - Ranther, or whatever is name was - sees me as a threat. He said so himself.

Of course, he thinks I have a genius plan that I'm hiding. And there's the fact that he said he would kill me.

Now that I think about it, why don't I have a plan?

I'm an apprentice! Plans are the foundation of everything an inventor creates. If I can't come up with some sort of idea to save my life, was I ever really worthy of the laboratories?

The answer is obvious. If I can't come up with a winning strategy after twelve years of grueling technical training, everyone who ever believed in me, everyone who ever praised me, told me how smart I was...they were all wrong. My teachers. My parents. Grace. Even Dash didn't doubt for a second that I'd make it to the top.

My mind is made up. I'll start my apprenticeship now, with the arena as my lab. It'll be like a special challenge: use all of the skills you gained over your years at PATT to come up with some sort of usable death trap. When I think about it this way, it sort of seems like a homework assignment. And everyone knows I'm good at those.

The other tributes better watch out.

When we resume training after lunch, I don't put as much effort into the stations. I still make my way around the survival stations: I try my hand at camouflage and basket weaving, and while I'm not terrible at either of them, I know that they probably won't be of very much use to me. I spend more time at the climbing and shelter stations.

My climbing is mediocre; a ledge or cliff side, I can scale, but a tree? Not so much. I try again and again, but I can never seem to get the footholds right. When I finally manage to get to a decent height, one of the branches snaps under me and I land on the mats below in a heap. To make things even more infuriating, the girl from Seven then proceeds to scale the very same tree with ease despite weighing at least twenty pounds more than me. When she reaches the top she looks back down at me and has the _audacity_ to laugh.

The anger must show on my face because the next thing I know, there's a hand on my shoulder. The action startles me and I jump a little. The hand belongs to a boy who looks about two years older than me, with dark brown skin and an apologetic smile. The look he gives me is resigned. I look to his shoulder, where the number seven is stitched neatly in bright red.

Oh, no. Not another tree climber.

"Don't take it personally. That's just Maya," he shrugs as if this answers everything.

How am I not supposed to take it personally? His District partner literally made a point of laughing in my face and making me look like an idiot.

I don't hold back. "That was kind of a bitchy move." I glare at her, but she isn't even looking in my direction. All that greets my gaze is a swishing blonde ponytail.

"She's always been like that," the boy sighs. "But she's just scared as hell. Making fun of other people is how she deals with all of...this."

"What, are you her spokesperson?" I reply, still pissed off.

"No, but I've known her a while. We work in the same chopping center, and she's my cousin-in-law."

I pause at this and turn to look at him. "Cousin-in-law?"

"Her older sister married my cousin four years ago."

All at once my heart breaks a little for this kid. It isn't like Maya's his sister or anything, but they're both kind of friends by the sound of it. They know each other, and that makes both their Games one hell of a lot worse. I think of my own cousins. I have three, and we're not that close. Only one of them is male; my dad's sister's son, a boy one year younger than me named Max. We see each other maybe twice a year, and he's a nice kid. He's in the biotech program a year below Grace, smart, likable. We don't have all that much in common, however, and we're not really friends.

If he were in the Games with me, though...

I shudder at the thought. Our families would be torn apart. _I_ would be torn apart.

The boy stares at Maya somewhat sadly, and I feel like I have to say something. "That...sucks," I say lamely.

"Yeah. Yes, it does." He seems to snap out of his momentary daze. "I'm sorry. You're probably not looking for any sad stories. I shouldn't have interrupted your training."

"It's nothing. Really. I was too mad to think straight, anyway."

The boy's answering smile somehow manages to put me at ease. "The name's Barker. District Seven, but you know that already."

I laugh a little. "Widget. District Three. Nice to meet you."

We part ways. Despite my new philosophy about everyone being dangerous, I can't help but think that I've made a friend.

Then I remember the truth of the situation. For him to go home, I have to die. He probably wouldn't hesitate to kill me if I were the one standing between him and home.

I transfer to a different survival station, where I discover that berry identification is not my forte. I can name the obvious ones; strawberries, blueberries and raspberries I've got down. It's the other, more uncommon ones I struggle with. I mix up bearberries, which are edible, with bloodberries, which are not. My biggest blunder occurs when I tell the instructor that the deadly nightlock branch I hold in my hand is actually a branch of harmless elderberries. The girl from Eleven witnesses this and shakes her head.

"Eat those and you're dead in seconds." She then scans the branches laid out before us, picking out one that looks very similar to the nightlock. "These are elderberries, right?" She asks the instructor, who nods her head.

Show-off. How can she tell? They look the same to me!

It becomes apparent that I won't master berries anytime soon, so I occupy myself with the other plants. Soon this, too, becomes frustrating. By now more people have turned to the survival stations, so I decide to back off for a little bit.

Even though I sucked at them earlier, I am drawn back to the weapons. I enjoy watching other people work with the bow in particular. No other weapon will ever have as much grace as the bow.

Well, it looks graceful in a capable person's hands. The girl from Eight isn't very good; she isn't pulling the bowstring far back enough, and the arrows keep dropping to the floor without coming close to the target. I would help her, but I'm just as bad as she is.

After six more attempts she notices me watching her. "Can I help you?" She turns to me, hands on her hips. I know she's trying to scare me off, but her stance isn't very intimidating. It's cute more than anything. Her dark hair is pulled back into the neatest braid I've ever seen, and the bow looks too big in her hands. She's not that much shorter than I am, but her face looks young.

"Not really. I was just watching."

This annoys her. "I could tell," she replies. With a huff, she turns away from me and fires one more arrow. Like the others, it hits nowhere near the target.

"Hey, Muck! Get any better yet? Those arrows are flying almost as low as your training score!"

The girl from Eight scowls, but determinedly keeps firing. The taunt came from somewhere behind us, and when I look back I see the boys from One and Two sneering obnoxiously. They continue to mock the girl, occasionally pointing her out to other passing tributes.

"What did you do to make them mad?" I ask her quietly.

"Nothing, really," she answers.

"You sure? They seem pretty ticked off."

Finally, the girl sighs and relents. "I asked the girl from One for a turn with the knives. She said no at first, but then the instructor made her hand them over. That made her mad. She got her cronies to stand around and jeer at me."

I wince. By messing with the Careers, this girl has unintentionally made herself a target.

"But then," the girl continues, "They cornered me and asked me my name. So I told them, I said: 'Mukta Thatcher, District Eight. And you?' But they didn't have the decency to answer me back!" There's unmasked rage in her eyes now. "Started following me, they did. Calling me Muck."

I can tell that behind the anger, she's hurt. I'd seen this look before on someone else, a few years ago.

It was a Friday night, and I'd just come home for the weekend from Tech Training. I was nine years old, doing homework at the table while my Dad tried his best to help. It was dark when Dash came home that night. Mom was beside herself with worry. He was only ever an hour late, at most; for it to be past nine o'clock and him still being absent was unthinkable.

"He's a smart boy, Modeme. He's probably stopped somewhere on the way back." My father tried to reason with her, to keep my mom's worry at bay. It wasn't working.

"I know my own children," she snapped. "This isn't like him. There's something wrong."

Not three seconds after the words left my mother's lips, he opened the door. Mom immediately ran forward and wrapped him in her arms.

"Dashex Irving! Why on Earth are you back at this hour?" My mom tried to sound like her usual strict self, but the relief in her voice was evident.

He shrugged her off and headed of to our room. "Stopped to chat with some friends," he said over his shoulder. The door slammed shut.

Later that night I came in for bed. As I lay under the covers, I couldn't help but whisper in the darkness. "Dash? What happened?"

I was prepared for the silence. My brother never liked questions, and I certainly didn't expect him to answer. He surprised me.

"There was a group of Tech boys milling around three blocks from the house. I ran into them on the way home." My brother's tone was bitter, and this shocked me.

"So? It's the weekend. There are always Tech kids hanging out on the weekend." I didn't understand why anger suddenly colored his voice.

"They asked me if I was lost."

"You weren't."

"I _know_. I told them I live here."

"I still don't get it, Dash."

"They _laughed_ , Widget. They laughed as if the very idea of me ever living in the MSA was stupid."

"Okay..."

"So I hit one of 'em."

"What?" I sat up in my bed and stared at my brother alarmingly. I could make him out in the moonlight, turned on his side facing me, expression screwed up in anger.

"I beat the shit out of the redhead. The others scattered pretty quickly after that."

I couldn't fathom why my brother would ever hit someone. He had a temper, but Dash's rage had always been harmless in my eyes. He'd yell, shut himself in our room, and be fine in a couple of hours. Never before had I seen him use violence.

"Dash! You'll get in trouble!"

He snorted at this. "No I won't. His friends called a Peacekeeper over to break it up, but they got Leonardo. He took one look at the situation, chased the kid away and gave me a smack on the wrist. That was it."

My nine year old self was grateful Leonardo was the one to break it up. My father showed him around the labs on his first few days in the District, and as a result the young Peacekeeper became friends of sorts with our family. I knew that Dash could have been whipped for his violence, but Leonardo wouldn't dream of doing that to him.

This information still didn't change the fact that Dash had beat someone up. Back then I couldn't understand why a comment about him being lost would drive my brother to hit someone. Why would something like that make him as angry as he was?

It wasn't just anger, though. I could read my brother well; underneath the hostility, there was a layer of hurt. For whatever reason, those Tech boys had hurt my brother.

"Forget about it, Widget," Dash yawned into the darkness. "A bulb like you could never understand."

So now as I stare into the soft brown eyes of the girl from District Eight, it's Dash I see staring back at me. And all of the sudden I need to make her feel at least a little bit better.

"That just shows you they're pretty dim-witted," I tell the girl, iIf the best insult they can come up with is 'muck.' Talk about unoriginal."

The girl, Mukta I think she said her name was, cracks a smile. "You're right," she chuckles, "it's lazy. I've heard that one a million times."

"You know, they used to call me Fidget back home. It's the only usable thing that rhymes with Widget, I guess, but it doesn't even make any sense."

We take turns coming up with better nicknames and trash-talking the Careers, who continue to jeer behind us until training ends. Even then, we don't stop our banter until the elevator doors slam shut between us on the third floor.

I enter my room with a big smile on my face. It's easy to forget that the other tributes are all real people, and that a lot of them are perfectly nice. Talking with Mukta felt a lot like walking outside of PATT with Grace, or spending time with Coyle. It was easy and fun, and I can't help but feel like Mukta is a new friend.

Unless I have to kill her.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Only one more chapter after this, and then the Games begin!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Private Sessions and Interviews**

 **A/N:** _Hello again! If you're reading this, thanks for sticking with this story. This update took longer than the last ones, but I hope it's worth the wait!_

 _WARNING! Made up science ahead! Physics nerds please don't be mad!_

* * *

If I thought Clink being rude to me was just a training tactic to impress other tributes, I was wrong. Whatever Wiress filled his head with he must have taken to heart. He doesn't even look my way at breakfast the next morning, only talking to me when Aeliana basically forces him to.

"Clink, did you tell Widget about your matching training outfits?" the escort squeals excitedly. My District partner takes a long sip of his orange juice before answering stiffly.

"No."

"You should tell her! You can even show her after breakfast. It's not really fair that you got to see them before her, but, well..." She looks at me apologeotically. "You were asleep already, dear, and Beetee didn't think I should wake you for an outfit."

I want to laugh; Aeliana apologizes about not showing me an outfit sooner as if she's murdered my puppy. In her mind this must be a huge offense.

"It's fine, Aeliana. I'll check them out after I eat."

"Yes! That's great. And Clink will show you, right, Clink?"

The boy glances at me before replying. "Whatever."

Clink does show me the outfits, in the end. After breakfast he walks me over to a room several doors down from mine where two sets of matching gray jumpsuits are laid out on a table. He takes his, nods awkwardly, and leaves me alone in the room.

I roll my eyes at his behavior. One would think that Clink of all people wouldn't try to make enemies. Beggars can't be choosers, after all. Maybe he thinks I'll die before ever being significant to him.

Back in my room, I don the jumpsuit without even looking in the mirror. I know I won't like what I see.

Beetee debriefs me before I head to training.

"How did the plan go yesterday?"

"Fine. I learned a lot about fires. And snares."

"Good, that's good. You're a smart girl, Widget. I trust you to train the way you think is best for you. Focus on survival and stay away from the weapons."

"Got it." I smile at Beetee before ducking away and sprinting to catch up to Clink, who's already at the elevator.

Beetee wants me to train how I think is best for me, and that's exactly what I plan to do. I have a vague semblance of a plan in my head that I'm going to follow today, and just knowing I'm going in prepared makes me feel a million times better.

Brainstorming is always the first step to finding the solution to any given problem. That's what I did late last night: hardcore brainstorming. For an hour I made a huge list; I wrote down every possible way that I could think of that someone can die.

Making the list was hard at first; every time I listed a death scenario, I kept imagining my fellow tributes dying at my hands. I wrote down the word 'electrocution', and I immediately envisioned the girl from Seven writhing in agony on the floor. When I wrote down 'poison', I saw Mukta choking on nightlock.

The way I got past this unpleasantness was by treating the list as a homework assignment. I told myself it was just another assessment task, and that my teacher would have my head if I didn't hand it in the next day.

The list was quite extensive. After it was finished, I started analyzing all of the possibilities. My lab-rat brain began sorting the methods into categories. Contact, non-contact, materials required, danger level... it was just like any other experiment. In the end I managed to narrow it down quite a lot.

It's this narrowed down list I carry with me into training. I keep it in the back of my head as I go about the gymnasium, revisiting stations from yesterday. I am very pleased to note that my fires start much quicker this morning, and my snares aren't half-bad.

"Hey."

I look up to see Mukta hovering over me, decked out in a pastel yellow one-piece tracksuit. Her stylists must have felt inspired this morning.

"Hey," I reply a bit distractedly, finishing the last knot on one of my snares. "Hold on a sec," I tell the girl from Eight.

"Excuse me? Could you step in my snare?" I ask the trainer standing to the right. Since we're not allowed to harm ourselves or other tributes, the trainers are obligated to assist us in testing out traps. Provided they aren't lethal, of course.

"Very well," the man replies, stepping forward. The second his foot touches the rope, the snare activates. He lets out an "oof" as the rope wraps around his ankle, yanking him into the air.

The snare is almost perfect. The place where the base knot is secured around the synthetic tree branch isn't tied well enough, and after about three seconds the whole thing unravels, sending the trainer tumbling to the mat below. He picks himself up and gives me a nod.

"Not bad," the man says, appreciatively. "A little tighter at the base next time."

When I turn back to Mukta I find the girl gaping at me. "When did you learn _that_?" Her surprise pleases me.

"I learned it yesterday. What's up?"

The girl twists her braid somewhat nervously. "Well," she begins, "I was just curious if maybe you wanted to go try out the climbing station with me. I figured it would be better than going alone, so..."

When I don't immediately respond, she backpedals.

"I mean, of course you have your own training schedule and stuff. I can totally do it by myself, and-"

"Course I'll go. C'mon."

Her face breaks out into a grin, and I laugh lightly. Together we make our way to the climbing station, where a few other tributes are already leaping above our heads.

Climbing goes well. I'm not that bad at jumping, and I'm surprisingly okay at shimmying up a rope. Mukta loses her footing several times, but doesn't fall until the boy from One begins to shake the rope she holds for balance.

"Whoa! Stop it!" she yells. This only encourages the boy, who doesn't cease the shaking.

"What's wrong, Muck? Can't handle a little shake?" he taunts.

The girl's hands eventually slip, and she lands five feet below on a mat. Her gaze turns to me, pleading for me to say something, but I know I can't. Mukta's got a target on her back now, and that isn't something I want to share.

"Screw you!" the girl from Eight huffs, standing up and stomping away. After two seconds I follow her.

"It's alright, Widget. Just let me train by myself for a bit," she says over her shoulder.

Not knowing what to do next, I wander around the gym until I'm in front of the weapons again. Once again I find myself staring at the bows. The girl from Ten is at the station now, and she's a decent shot. I watch her pull the glaetium wire all the way back before releasing the arrow at the target. Everything about it is so elegant.

Glaetium wire is excellent for electromagnets. Glaetium solenoids, if they're thick enough, are some of the best conductors out there. But these bow strings are thin, and if I did want to make an electromagnet, I would have to loop them possibly a hundred times to make up for this fact.

What would I use for the core of the magnet? My eyes wander to the ceplumite shields. Most of them aren't the ideal shape for a ferromagnetic core, but the smallest one could possibly be used. Even so, I'd need a lot more bowstring.

No, the ceplumite shields wouldn't do. Are there other objects in this room made from ceplumite? My eyes scan my surroundings, eventually landing on the helmets on the other side of the room in the sparring area. Those are smaller. Still not the ideal size, but they could work.

A current, however... where would I get one of those?

I ask myself this same question all the way until lunch.

—

Lunch passes quickly. This time around, I don't sit alone; Mukta joins me after about five minutes.

"Widget... we've got to stick together. People like us...we don't exactly look like great allies. We gotta be there for each other. You know?"

That pretty much describes every one of our interactions. If either one of us were stronger, we'd both leave each other in the dust. But we're both weaklings, so we don't have the luxury of choice.

The food is fabulous, but all I can focus on are the girls from Seven and Eleven. Apart from the Careers and my table, they're the only ones sitting together.

I don't like it. I haven't seen much of the girl from Eleven, but she can't be worthless if Maya's sitting with her. _Just what I need_ , I think to myself, _another power couple._

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. I stick to survival, improving the skills I learned yesterday and learning new ones. When I finally return to the Third floor, I am exhausted.

Beetee notices the tired way I move my feet. "Work hard?" he asks.

"Yep. Sticking to the plan."

"Good," he replies. "Now go take a shower."

I go to bed early and don't even have the energy to dream.

—

I wake up and immediately know I slept too late. Sunlight is already streaming through the window, and I can't hear the usual noise of the catering team preparing breakfast. Panicked, I quickly throw on an outfit laid out on an armchair and burst into the dining room.

I find my mentor seated calmly at the table, casually reading a thick book.

"Why didn't anyone wake me?" I gasp.

"Thought you could use the extra sleep."

This is Hunger Games training. I don't have the luxury of sleep.

"Relax," Beetee says after seeing my panicked expression. "You only missed breakfast. Clink and Wiress are talking in the next room. And Aeliana insisted the chefs put together a plate for you. It's over there," he nods at a table in the corner, where a plate of what looks like eggs and some sort of meat sits waiting. I pick the plate up and set it down across from my mentor.

"Um... Beetee?" I ask after about a minute of playing with my breakfast.

"Yes?"

"Well," I begin, "I was looking at the equipment yesterday, and the materials and stuff, and, well..."

My mentor puts down the book and gazes at me intently. "What is it?"

"I...well, this might sound kind of stupid, but when I saw the glaetium bowstrings and ceplumite shields, I couldn't help but wonder..."

I tell Beetee about the things I noticed the day before: about the memories of experiments back at Tech Training, about the coils and shields, about the vague plans I'd formed in that gymnasium. His expression changes throughout the discussion, from skepticism, to confusion, to understanding, to uncertainty.

"It could work," he says after I finish. "The main issue I see is the current."

"I know," I say frustratedly.

"But if you can make it work somehow in your session today, it could help you a lot in the long run. Even if you don't end up doing that in the Arena."

It's nice to have my mentor's approval, but I was hoping for some solutions. Shouldn't Beetee be more involved in my strategies?

"Shouldn't we be talking more about tactics? How I'm gonna off everyone else?" I ask him.

In response, he sighs. "We would be if I thought that was your priority. I've had tributes like you before, Widget."

"And?"

"I talked strategy with them, years ago." He looks out the window, and I can tell his mind is slipping somewhere far away. For some reason this annoys me more than it probably should.

 _That was then! They're all on the other side now, Beetee, and if you don't help me, I'll definitely be joining them!_

I snap my fingers to get his attention. "And? The strategies didn't work? It's okay! We can come up with something better together!"

"What use is a killing strategy when you're not alive to use it?"

Beetee's voice is almost angry, but I know he's not mad at me.

"Trust me, Widget," he says softly, "Your only chance lies with the survival stations. I've watched my last fifteen kids either get speared in the stomach or starve to death. You need to focus on survival today."

I sit back and stare at the table, defeated.

"Plus," Beetee adds, "Do you really need me to help you come up with strategies? Because it seems to me that you've already done your homework in that department."

The conversation plays through my head as I enter the gymnasium for the last time. For once, I don't even look at the weapons, and instead make a beeline for the fire starting station.

—

The hallway where the tributes sit awaiting their private sessions is long and dimly lit. I sit next to Clink on one of the benches, but he doesn't say a word to me.

Many of the other tributes are talking amongst themselves quietly. I spy Maya from Seven chatting up the girl from Eleven again. A little further away Mukta seems to be making small talk with the slight girl from Four.

 _"Her name is Floundra," Mukta said to me earlier at the climbing station. "She isn't good at much, to be honest, but she sure can fish. And her knots are something else. You should see the snares she was doing earlier..."_

I tuned most of it out - I don't really feel like trusting too many people, and opening up to someone this late in training isn't something I'm prepared to risk. It takes me more than one afternoon to figure out who isn't going to stab me in the back the first chance they get.

Everyone goes quiet as Zandria exits the room triumphantly.

"Nailed it! You should have seen their faces when I used the double-pound kick!" She tells her District partner.

"You think you got an eleven?" he grins, "or are you gonna lose that bet after all?"

"Those numbskulls better give me an eleven. Good luck, dipshit."

The boy laughs and heads in for his session.

I'm next.

Sooner than I would have liked, the door opens and the boy from Two exits. He looks angry, and I wonder what could have happened.

"Widget Irving, District Three," a voice calls from inside.

I take a deep breath and step through the the door.

The gamemakers are all gathered at a table in the back. Most of them look impressed, and I inwardly groan. With most of the Careers having gone before me, I'm going to be the first weakling of the day. My score is sure to take a hit from that.

Yet another disadvantage of being from Three.

"You may begin," instructs a man who I know to be Seneca Crane, the head gamemaker this year.

I realize my hands are shaking, and I take a deep breath and will them to be steady. This is it. Time for another experiment.

I imagine once again that this room is just another laboratory back home, and that this is a practical lab assessment. Nothing new whatsoever. Immediately I become more focused, and my body gravitates towards the bows.

When I begin to dismantle the weapons, I hear the gamemakers whisper behind me. For a moment I think they might stop me, order me to leave the weapons intact. But the whispering eventually quiets, and by then I have three separate glaetium wires laid out next to me.

Next I make for the ceplumite helmets. I take the smallest one I see and begin to wrap the glaetium around it in coils. This takes me about a minute, and once I have the framework assembled I waste no time in making my way over to the final destination: the swing machine. It's a machine designed for moving target practice; several targets swing in multiple directions from rotating robotic arms above my head. But it's not the targets I want - it's the source of their power.

When I open the machine's power compartment, I hear one of the gamemakers protest. "She's ruining everything! Seneca, we can't let her just destroy the facility!"

"I said _wait_ , Cornelius!"

I switch off the Fradian battery before removing it. The power source is deceiving - the battery itself is quite small, yet it stores a tremendous amount of energy. I hurriedly carry the thing over to the glaetium-ceplumite contraption on the other side of the room and calmly connect the cables.

Once it's finished I stand up and stare straight at the gamemakers. Most of them look confused, one or two annoyed.

"Would one of you please hold a sword for me? It's a part of this demonstration."

This pushes one of the gamemakers over the edge. "Now listen here, girl," he snarles, "You come in here, waste our time, destroy the equipment, and just expect us to-"

"Cornelius! Silence!" The head gamemaker commands. The furious man sits down, but continues to glare at me.

"Your request is unusual," Seneca informs me, and for a second I'm positive he's going to refuse.

He doesn't. "Very well. Give it here."

Before I can bring him the sword a woman dressed in red appears carrying one from the shadows. She places it in front of the men, then darts back into the corner.

"Most people find it much harder to attack weaponless," I say after I see Seneca grip the sword's handle.

What happens next surprises everyone, including me.

I hold the electromagnet as far away from my body as I can. I've rehearsed this scenario dozens of times on my head: I'll flip the switch and the sword will travel the short distance from the gamemaker's hand to my magnet. They will be impressed, and I will look smart. I expect that the sword will come handle first due to the heavier concentration of cobalt in the handle, but I realize my mistake a second too late.

The sword the woman in red gave the game makers is different to the one I was planning to give them: this one has a wooden grip. This means the most magnetic point on the sword is the steel blade.

Unfortunately I don't realize this until my finger has already switched the battery on.

The only thing I have time to do before the sword's edge slices my arm is throw the magnet to my right. A wave of relief washes over me as I see the blade change course at the last millisecond, following the electromagnet that is now a little ways to the right of me, on the floor behind a sparring dummy.

The sword slices through the dummy's chest, resting there embedded almost casually. The magnetic pull from the Fradian battery isn't strong enough to overcome the cloth barrier of the dummy's skin, so the sword simply stays put.

Without turning back to the gamemakers I pick up the electromagnet once more, this time increasing the output of the battery to max power. The magnet hums dangerously in response. I know this will overwhelm the system, but that's exactly what I need.

Without pause I fling my contraption to my left, aiming for a collection of dummies meant for the spears. Upon contact the object explodes, blasting one of them to bits.

I don't realize how much my heart is pounding until I turn to look at the gamemakers once more. Cornelius still looks mad, but the rest eye me, considering.

"Thank you, Miss Irving. You are dismissed."

Only when I exit that room do my actions catch up with me, and I collapse to the floor in disbelief.

—

"Come on, Widget. It couldn't have been that bad."

Ever since I've returned to the Third floor Beetee has been trying to cheer me up. I haven't even told him why I'm so upset, but I don't think I need to. Knowing the tributes our District offers up every year my mentor is probably used to low training scores and post-assessment depression.

"Hey," he tells me, "The girl I mentored four years ago got a two. You couldn't have been the worst one today."

All I can do is shake my head and stare blankly at the TV screen. An advertisement of some sort is playing, but I don't really understand the product. My mind keeps coming back to my training session, and that stupid explosion.

How did I ever think that was a good idea? That blowing up their equipment would somehow impress the gamemakers? I've angered them, I'm sure of it. They'll probably give me a horrible score, like a one or a two. No one in their right mind will ever dream of sponsoring me. Or worse, Cornelius is probably planning some horrific, painful death for me as punishment.

I just hope the Careers kill me before he does.

Clink doesn't look happy as he takes a seat on the opposite couch. "Has it started yet?" he asks Beetee wearily.

"Not yet. But they won't keep us waiting long."

Not one second after the words leave my mentor's mouth, Caesar Flickerman's wide grin appears onscreen. His hair color this year is horrible; the host has dyed his hair a bright red, and it almost looks like he's bleeding.

"Hello, Panem!" he cries excitedly. "We have a _very_ special show for you tonight! The 73rd Hunger Games are almost upon us, and our tributes have been hard at work over the past few days, preparing all sorts of surprises to show us in the arena!"

The audience cheers. I groan.

"But before we see them in action, we get to see a sneak peak of their potential through their training scores!"

I close my eyes and bury my head in my hands. Beetee just pats me on the back.

Seneca Crane appears on TV at one point to talk about the meaning of the scores, but I zone out during most of his interview. Out of the corner of my eye I see Clink tap his foot impatiently.

"Just get to the damn numbers already!" he whines.

"Clink! That's not the right attitude, dear. Just sit back and enjoy the show! There's no rush," Aeliana chides.

"Really, lady?" My District partner replies, "You want me to enjoy the freaking show?"

It takes a few gentle words from Wiress to calm him down.

Finally, the wait is over. A picture of the District One boy, Flash, appears onscreen, accompanied by "oohs" and "ahhs" from the Capitol audience. A few seconds later and his score is announced. A ten.

Clink sighs and shuts his eyes. Aeliana hums appreciatively, while Beetee just shrugs.

"He's been training for this for a long time. It would be a wonder if he didn't get a ten," my mentor states, matter-of-factly.

Flash's district partner receives a nine. The boy from two pulls a ten. When it gets to Zandria, I brace myself. She seemed so confident walking out of her session, so sure that she'd get an almost impossible score of eleven. What will her number be?

It's a ten. Someone just lost a bet.

Pretty soon it's Clink's face up onscreen. It's odd - he looks so much more certain in his tribute photo. I don't know how the photographers did it, but his face stares into camera like he knows what he's doing. Almost like he's got tricks up his sleeve.

Of course, this impression vanishes completely when his score is announced.

"The score for Clink Jeremy of District Three is three!" Claudius Templesmith, the announcer, declares in a booming voice.

"A three from Three! How fitting!" Caesar jokes with the audience. The Capitolians laugh, but Clink's face is almost immediately forgotten after it's taken offscreen.

I chance a look at my District partner, and instantly feel sorry for him. There's no other way to put it - he looks crushed. There are silent tears running down his cheeks, and his face is screwed up in a cross between anger and despair. He almost reminds me of Coyle after our mother tells him he has to go to bed early.

Clink is just a kid. A kid who's been stuck with a score so bad it's basically a death sentence.

He stays resolutely put as my own face appears on TV. I almost don't recognize myself, the photo is so done up. My hair is done up on top of my head in a way that makes my face look fiercer. The Capitol photographers are magicians.

"The score for Widget Irving of District Three-"

 _Please don't be a two, please don't be a two..._

"-is eight!"

All heads in the room turn to stare at me, but all I can do is gape at the TV.

An eight? It can't be! What about the explosion? What about Cornelius' anger?

 _Eight_. I pulled an eight.

For the first time in two days Clink turns to me. "What the hell, Irving!" he screams. "What the hell did you do?"

"Clink!" Wiress gasps.

"I thought you were weak! You were supposed to be a weakling, like me!"

He's scaring me now. The expression on my District partner's face is murderous, but underneath the rage there's a layer of betrayal.

Because I wasn't supposed to be a threat to anyone. Neither of us was supposed to amount to anything, but I had to go and get an eight and leave him in the dust.

"Clink! Calm down. Right now!" Beetee demands. Clink goes silent, but his eyes never leave mine.

"Dash was right about you. You really don't care about leaving people behind."

With that, Clink storms off, leaving me frozen on the couch.

Dash? He knows Dash? When did Dash ever talk about me?

It's too much. I decide I can't sit anymore, and move to leave. A tug on my shirt stops me.

"Stay, Widget. Watch the rest. You'll regret it if you don't." Beetee's eyes are understanding behind his glasses, and I can't refuse. So I stay, and Aeliana rewinds a bit so we can see the scores of the tributes from Four.

The boy gets a nine. The girl Mukta was talking to earlier pulls a five.

The rest of the scores aren't that noteworthy, and I stop trying to remember them after the tributes from Six. I only pay attention again when Barker's face appears onscreen. He pulls an eight, like me.

I shake my head. How on earth did someone like me manage to get the same score as a tree-climbing, axe-wielding boy from Seven?

Maya's score is a ten, proving once again that she will be a powerful force in the arena. I wonder if she'll ditch the girl from Eleven for the Careers. I'm certain they'll want her as a part of the pack, now that she's got a ten under her belt.

Sweet Mukta gets a four, the same as her District partner. I bet she's wondering how the heck I got an eight. Maybe she thinks I snared my way to the top.

I snort at the image of me in the private session, hoisting dummies into the air by their feet. I can only imagine the score _that_ would have gotten me.

Then those blue eyes are onscreen, and it's all I can do not to look away. It's just his picture, right? It's not like he can actually see me or anything.

"The score for Amaranth Bernal of District Nine is eleven!"

The crowd goes wild. I just feel sick to my stomach.

"Who _is_ he?" Wiress whispers. An eleven is practically unheard of. Impossible. Capitolians must be placing their bets as she speaks.

I only pay attention to the girl from Ten because I think her hair is pretty in the tribute photo. She gets a six, and so does the girl from Eleven. They announce her name as Mihica. Why did Maya choose to her as an ally, again?

The show finishes with the girl from Twelve, Kim, who scores a five.

When Caesar bids us all a goodnight, I am relieved. All I want right now is sleep. No more thinking, no more scores. Just sleep.

I have a nightmare that night. Mukta and I are drowning in a pool of something bright red, and the liquid burns my skin. Just when I manage to claw my way to the surface and gasp for air, a pair of icy blue eyes swallows me whole.

—

"No."

My stylist glares in response to my refusal.

"Honey, this is fashion. And you don't have a choice."

"I am _not_ wearing those shoes."

"Yes you are, and the sooner you suck it up and put them on, the sooner we can move on."

I stare disgustedly at the horrible gray death traps they want me to put on my feet. I have never _ever_ worn heels before, and I definitely don't want to try them out now.

"Just hear me out," I try again.

"No buts. Put them on. Now!"

This is a battle I am not prepared to lose. "Do you want me to break an ankle the night before the Games?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I think you're the one being ridiculous. I'm fifteen. Trying to market me as sexy is kind of messed up."

"They're not even that tall."

"Are you kidding me?" I can't believe the craziness of the Capitol. Heels? On a baby-faced fifteen year old lab-rat?!

After a minute of tense glaring, my stylist throws her hands up in the air. "You know what? Fine. Have it your way. We'll get you a pair of hideous flats and see how many sponsors you get."

The flats are still horrible, but a million times better than the alternative.

Everyone's stressed out today, and Beetee _did_ warn me everything would be a little more hectic with the preparations. Apparently they're always like this on interview day.

After several hours of grueling makeover I am temporarily released from the clutches of my prep team. Beetee chuckles as I collapse into an armchair across from him.

"Did they beautify you enough?"

"I think they over-beautified me. And I still have to put on the dress later tonight."

"Well," he leans forward, assessing me. "It's time for step two."

Step two, I learn, is the actual interview prep. Tonight is the night when we, the tributes, make our big impressions. We only have three minutes to do it, so winging it is not an option. Before I even leave is room I have to have an angle prepared and already plan the answers to any potential interview questions.

Over the course of three hours, Beetee asks me all kinds of questions about home, my family, my strategy, my time in the Capitol. It takes me several tries to get the answers for each somewhat right.

"Well, you're not sexy."

"Duh."

"I would say to go for the standard 'I'm smarter than all of these idiots so just you wait' approach, but that's pretty overused for District Three tributes."

"So what then? No angle?"

"What? Of course not. You _need_ an angle," my mentor stresses, "it's just that we haven't found it yet."

Several questions later, Beetee snaps his fingers.

"I know! Go for mysterious."

"Huh?"

"You, Widget Irving, have a secret master plan that'll blow the audience away. You just can't tell anyone what it is."

"I do?"

"Even if you don't have one yet, pretend you do. Capitolians love mystery."

So we try the new angle, and surprisingly it works. After a couple more rounds of questions Beetee shoots me a thumbs up.

"You're good to go," he says, "and it's time to get that dress on. You only have ninety minutes until show time."

I don't protest as my stylist roughly pulls me into another gray ensemble. The dress actually isn't that horrible.

I just hope tonight turns out okay.

—

I try to be confident when I step up onstage. Caesar Flickerman's just introduced the tributes, and we're all being escorted into lines of elegant chairs off to the side of the main interview platform.

My eyes take several minutes to fully adjust to the bright lights, and I am stunned when I can finally take in the crowd. It's as if the entire Capitol has assembled to watch our interviews - the audience is huge!

Relax. Don't be nervous. Just sit back and wait your turn.

The girl from One starts the night off, and immediately takes everyone's breaths away. Her gown is stunning, accenting her figure wonderfully. I can tell what her angle is as soon as she starts talking: she's a princess. She speaks as if she's above everyone else, laughing like the thought of her ever losing is ridiculous. The Capitol eats it up.

After her three minutes are up, Flash takes the stage. His style is arrogant. He answers confidently, flashing the audience several winks before his time runs out.

Before long both of the tributes from Two have given their interviews. Zandria was bloodthirsty, angry that she didn't get a higher training score. The boy was the strong silent type, answering questions like a minimalist, but effectively.

Now it's my turn. Caesar introduces me, kissing the back of my hand. It takes a lot of willpower to not wipe it on my dress, but I resist the urge.

"So, Widget," the host says conspiratorially, "Are you aware that your training score is the highest from your district in fourteen years?"

"Oh, well," my mind searches for something to say, "I do try, Caesar." I flash the audience a smile I hope comes across as knowing.

"She tries! Ha! Isn't she something, ladies and gentlemen? So modest. But really," he lowers his voice in something akin to a stage-whisper, "How _did_ you get that eight? We're all wondering."

I play along, lowering my voice as well. "I would love to tell you all my secrets," I say, "But aren't surprises more fun as surprises?"

Caesar laughs like I've told the funniest joke he's ever heard. "Full of tricks, this one! But yes, we understand. And I'm sure we're all looking forward to seeing your tricks in action. Aren't we, ladies and gentlemen?"

The crowd roars, and for a moment I feel genuinely happy.

"Now tell me a little bit about home, Widget. Who's going to welcome you back when these Games are over?"

Caesar asks this as if it's a given that I'll go home. As if there's no question that I'll see my family again. I guess he's right; the only question is if I'll still be breathing when I get there.

"Home is wonderful. Honestly, I miss it a lot. I have two brothers watching me right now, one older and one younger. The little one's only three."

The audience lets out a collective _aww_. "And how much do they mean to you?" Caesar asks seriously.

"The world. I'd do anything for them. Including winning this thing."

Clink's words flash through my mind. _Dash was right about you. You really don't care about leaving people behind._

I do care, Dash. I don't want to leave anyone behind.

"Touching words. Is there anything else you'd like to say to Panem before our time is over?"

I put on a smile and look into the faces of the crowd. "If there's anything I've learned in the laboratories back in Three, it's that dynamite comes in small packages. Keep that in mind, Panem, when you watch me compete tomorrow. You don't know the half of what I've got planned."

The crowd roars again and the buzzer goes off, signaling that my time is up. On my way back to my seat I catch Ranther's eye. He gazes at me intensely, but for once I don't flinch away. I nod in his direction before taking my seat and watching Clink stumble his way through the interview questions.

When the last tribute is done speaking the lights dim, and I am finally allowed to leave my chair. Before I can make my way back over to Beetee and my prep team, however, there's a tap on my shoulder.

It's Mukta. She looks at me determinedly and doesn't wait for an acknowledgement.

"Tomorrow," she begins, "When we're on those pedestals, you find me. We'll have sixty seconds to figure it out. I'll point somewhere, and we'll both meet up."

I nod. I'd almost forgotten to coordinate something with her, but I'm glad she found me. We won't see each other again until we're inside the Arena.

"See you around, Widget."

With that my little ally is off, quickly disappearing into the crowds backstage.

I thought sleep would be difficult tonight, but it's surprisingly easy to come by. I guess my body somehow knows this could be the last night I ever see, and it's making the most of the opportunity.

My last conscious thought is _let the Games begin._

 _—_

 _ **A** / **N** : If anyone was wondering, I got the elements ceplumite, glaetium and Fradian from this random metal name generator I found online. Most of this science is made up, and I have no idea whether Widget's stunt would work in real life. But that's the beauty of fiction, right? ;) _


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Let the Games Begin**

 **A/N:** _Welcome back! I want to thank everyone who's followed and favorited this story so far. I'm actually excited to open my email for once! This chapter is longer than the others, but is also the most eventful as of yet. With that said, enjoy! Reviews are very much appreciated._

 _Also, am I supposed to put disclaimers on these? Because I see other FFN writers do it, but I thought it was obvious that I don't own the franchise. Just in case: I don't own the Hunger Games! I made up most of these characters, but this_ _universe belongs to Suzanne Collins. Also I am not profiting off of this in any way- if I were, that would be a big accomplishment for a high school freshman. :)_

* * *

I'm hungry. That's the first thing I notice when I wake up.

The second thing I notice is that my blinds are drawn, so I can't tell what time of day it is.

With a groan I drag myself out of bed, opening them and discovering that the sun is just peeking up over the buildings of the Capitol. It's early in the morning; my guess is around six or seven.

I know it's the big day. That's a fact that I haven't managed to forget. I tell myself that I can use all the sleep I can get, that if I don't get a few more hours in I might get too tired later. It doesn't work, and after about twenty minutes I decide to just head to breakfast.

I throw on whatever outfit they've laid out for me today and leave my room. When I reach the dining area, I'm surprised to find that I'm not the first one there.

Clink and Beetee sit at the table, eating plates of something that smells delicious. My mentor looks up at me as I enter, and lets out a sigh as I sit down.

"Up already? I was hoping you two would get a little more sleep, but..." he trails off, staring somewhere into space.

"Couldn't stay unconscious, I guess," I shrug, reaching for a hard-boiled egg.

"Stay away from the breads," Beetee instructs, watching me peel the egg. "That stuff won't last you very long in the arena. It's empty calories. Eggs, meats, fruit, oats - that's what you need this morning."

I take his advice, piling up a plate with everything he just mentioned. I plan on eating until I'm one hundred-percent full. After all, there's a good chance this will be the last meal I ever eat.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

After a little while Wiress enters the room and takes a seat next to me. Apart from a quiet "good morning," she doesn't say much. There just isn't a need for conversation.

Pretty soon my calm morning is over. Aeliana makes herself known before long, heels clicking as she bustles into the the space.

"Come now, dearies! I need you ready and out the door in exactly ten minutes!" she exclaims cheerfully, glancing at Clink and I sitting at the table.

"We'll hand them over soon, Aeliana," Wiress tells the escort. She turns to Clink and smiles ruefully. "Clink, I think we should talk for a few minutes now that you're done eating. Is that okay?"

My District partner nods and stands up, carefully pushing his chair in and following his mentor out of the room.

Pretty soon it's just Beetee and me again. There's a pause as he looks at me over his glasses.

Eventually I break the silence. "So... this is it, I guess."

Beetee only stares at me in response, an expression I can't quite decipher on his face.

"Listen, Beetee," I say, "I wanted to thank you. For everything. Because if-"

My mentor cuts me off. "Thank me when you get out."

This shuts me up momentarily. "Huh?"

"Don't thank me now. Save it. For later. Tell me this a month from now, when we're neighbors in the Victors' Village."

I don't know how to reply. I can't promise to thank him later. How can he expect me to? With Careers like Flash and Zandria- hell, even non-Careers like Maya and _Ranther_ \- how can he think for a moment that I'll make it out alive?

"No Beetee, really-" I try again, by to no avail.

"I said save it. I haven't had a tribute like you, Widget, in ten years."

"I understand, but-"

"No. You don't understand. He..." Beetee's voice cuts off for a moment, and there are tears in his eyes. When he continues, his voice is thick with them. "He was sixteen. A year older than you. Young, lively, and just _so goddamn smart_."

I am acutely aware of the time passing, of my last precious minutes of safety falling away. I want to tell him to stop. I don't want to spend my last minutes with him like this, talking about some long-dead boy he couldn't save.

But I can't bring myself to say anything. Something tells me this is important, to Beetee at least. The man in front of me has spent time with so many kids and watched each and every one of them die. Just imagining having to do that every year breaks my heart. The least I can do is listen to him.

"He was an apprentice," Beetee tells me. "Like you. Just like you. He was the highest tested bulb in his year, and I still think if he'd been just one year older- you know, if he'd had just one year to make a name for himself- they wouldn't have dreamed of-"

At this Beetee stops himself, eyeing the room warily. After a deep breath, he continues in a quieter voice. "His name was Callum, and he almost made it. He killed four tributes at once by vaporizing the deadly substances in a flashlight battery and gassing their shelter. It was a plan even I couldn't have thought of. Do you know how he died, Widget?"

I stare at my mentor blankly, not daring to say a word.

"He was eaten alive by carnivorous plants with only two other tributes left. The gamemakers placed them in the cave where he'd been sleeping, and he was a goner the minute he woke up."

I still don't know where Beetee's going with this story, but continue listening anyway.

"The thing about Callum," my mentor says, "is that he had a big mouth. All the smartest people do. He had an opinion on anything and everything, and wasn't scared to voice it. He had several complaints in particular about the whole Hunger Games system. Complaints he didn't keep a secret, and that the gamemakers didn't particularly agree with."

I finally understand the point of this story. "Complaints that got him killed," I whisper.

Beetee nods, and grasps my shoulders. "That Arena will terrify you. It will make you sad and confused and angry all at once, I can guarantee it. But you can _never, ever, ever_ criticize it. Play the game, Widget. But play smart. More importantly, play to win."

The sound of approaching high heels signals the end of our discussion time, and Beetee lets me go. I don't really feel like hearing Aeliana's voice any more than I have to, so I don't wait for her to summon me.

"Coming, Aeliana!" I yell in her general direction.

I give my mentor one last hug. "Goodbye," I say into his shoulder.

"Play to win. I'll be watching," is all he says before retreating into a corner. I look at him one last time before joining my escort at the elevator. Clink walks up to us seconds later, and before I know it we're all off to the next stop on this gruesome journey of ours.

—

Saying goodbye to Clink and Aeliana is easy. She drops us both off at some platform where two hovercrafts soon came to whisk us away to our respective launch rooms underneath the Arena. A targeted electric current freezes us to the ladders as we are hauled aboard, and I find myself once again momentarily fascinated with Capitol technology.

This fascination is replaced with an anxious dread as soon as a Capitol medic jams a needle into my arm.

"A tracker," is all he says. Soon I am dropped off at my destination: a small underground room containing only a closet, my stylist, and a wide glass tube.

It's the tube, meant to lift me into the Arena, that I stare at as my stylist practically tears my clothes off my body.

"You only have ten minutes to change! Hurry up!" she growls, thrusting a shirt into my hands.

It takes me longer than it probably should to put the whole outfit on. The shirt is short sleeved and dark beige in color, made from the same light material as the pants.

 _This can't be protective_ , I think to myself. The boots, at least, are sturdy; those feel like they could handle anything.

My stylist looks at me and rolls her eyes. "Another hot year," she says annoyedly. "Can't they have a colder climate for once? Hot weather is so _limiting_ in fashion. Winter coats..." She pauses, sighing wistfully. "Now those would be stylish."

So the Arena will be hot. The information is interesting, but doesn't change a thing right now. I have to stick to my plan: find Mukta, then get the hell out of the middle as fast as possible.

My stylist glances at her watch and sighs. "Afraid we're out of time. Sorry we didn't get you a better Arena outfit, darling. Oh, but wait!"

The woman reaches into her pocket, pulling out something very familiar. It's Dash's gear necklace. I snatch it from her hands, not caring about her reaction. I can't believe I almost forgot about my token. I put it on hastily. The small weight of the gear around my neck is a comfort, and reminds me once again of home.

 _I love you, Dash. I love you, Coyle. I love you, Mom and Dad._

I turn just in time to see the door to the glass tube swing open. My time is up.

I inhale one final deep breath before taking my last risk-free steps. The door swings shut behind me as soon as I enter the small chamber, trapping me inside. I can feel a rumble, and then the platform beneath my feet is rising. The last I see of safety is my stylist on the other side of the glass, waving at me nonchalantly.

—

The first thing I notice about the Arena is that it's hot, just like the woman who dressed me said it would be. I haven't been on the surface for ten seconds and already I can feel the heat beating down on my skin.

Everything is sand-colored. The semi-circle of pedestals is wide, and around me all of the other tributes seem to also be examining their surroundings. As I register the familiar faces I am relieved to discover no immediate threats to my left or right. The boys from Six and Twelve are on either side of me, and neither one received higher than a four in training.

A look behind me reveals what looks like miles of dry grassland, dotted with large sandy, beige stone structures. The scene looks like something out of a history book; it's what I would imagine the ruins of the country that existed before Panem looked like after the war that destroyed everything, hundreds of years ago.

In front of me, beyond the golden Cornucopia, is a small cliff. A stone bridge, broken in places, provides a way to cross over the drop-off. On the other side of it are more ruins, but there are also tall trees surrounding the buildings.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 73rd Hunger Games begin - and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The voice of Claudius Templesmith booms clearly throughout the arena, and the countdown to the start of the Games begins.

The Cornucopia is about a hundred feet away. Inside the giant golden horn I can see countless weapons and backpacks. I spot a giant gleaming sword right at the mouth. A large duffel bag also lies inside the horn, and I can only imagine what's inside. A tent, probably, given the size of it.

My eyes hurriedly scan the tributes for the small girl from Eight. I locate her nine tributes away from me, on a pedestal next to Clink. She's staring right at me, and I can tell she's been thinking hard about the next move.

Just as the countdown reaches forty seconds until the start, she nods ever so slightly behind us. She wants to head for the grasslands.

There's no time for any other plan. I reposition my feet to sprint as soon as the gong sounds, but something familiar catches my eye before I can fully turn myself around.

It's a small light gray backpack, sitting about twenty feet away from my pedestal. At first glance it looks normal: just another supply item to help in the arena. However, one small detail sets it apart from the other packs scattered around.

Stitched into the strap facing me is a bright red PATT logo, the very same one I've stared at almost every day of my life since I was three years old. Beneath it is a symbol used in the labs to represent power sources.

My mind is immediately filled with posibilities. This bag was placed here for me, I'm sure of it. Who else in this Arena could recognize that symbol? They were smart, the gamemakers; the backpack is placed just far enough to put me in potential danger, but just close enough to get my attention. They _want_ me to go for it.

In my heart I know I have to risk it. Inside this bag could be my only hope of survival. There's a generator of some sort inside. Either that, or a battery pack. I would have so much more potential with either one of those things at my disposal.

The countdown reaches ten seconds. Not taking my eyes of the backpack, I shift my feet in that direction.

Three, two, one. The gong sounds and I am immediately off of my pedestal, racing headfirst towards the bag.

I almost make it.

The boy from Twelve seems to have made the same decision I have, and unfortunately for me, he's a fast sprinter. He reaches the pack half a second after I do, snatching the thing from my hands and high-tailing it in the opposite direction.

I want to scream at the unfairness of it. That's _my_ backpack he's running off with! He won't understand what to do with the power sources. The contents are useless in his hands!

Shock overtakes me when I see what happens to him next. He's a good fifty feet away when seemingly out of nowhere an arrow shoots through the air, piercing the side of his neck.

My hands fly to my mouth in surprise and I am paralyzed, too shocked to move. The boy's hands do almost the same thing as mine, except his come back drenched in blood. Within moments he drops to his knees before crumpling to the ground, where he lies unmoving.

The girl from Ten is quick to the scene, scooping up the backpack with the hand not holding the bow.

How did she even get her hands on a weapon like that so soon?

A loud scream brings me to my senses.

What am I doing? I have to move!

By the time I finally begin running again, the Cornucopia is a scene of death and destruction. The ground is soaked with blood and littered with corpses. I spot Flash near the mouth, skewering the boy from District Five with a spear.

Most of the usable supplies have already been taken away. The only thing I spot is a small bundle of rope, which I scoop up hurriedly in one hand before sprinting onward. When I reach my pedestal I almost vomit at the sight of the boy from District Six sprawled out on his stomach. His neck is twisted at an odd angle and there's an arrow in his back. It's no doubt the work of the curly blonde girl from Ten.

Just as I reach the first pile of rubble on the outskirts of the Cornucopia, I feel a sharp, stinging pain in the back of my leg. I look down to see a the handle of a small knife embedded in the earth, the blade of which managed to tear a hole in my pantleg.

"Where you going, Three?" a girlish voice calls from somewhere behind me.

I don't dare to look back. Desperately I try to speed up my footsteps, to put as much distance between myself and that voice as possible. Unfortunately, I trip over my own boots in my haste.

The ground is scratchy, and the fall stings my hands as I come down. There are desperate tears in my eyes as I try to pick myself up, to get it together before they're upon me.

I'm just not fast enough.

I remember once when I was seven and Dash was nine, he put me in a headlock. I had been getting on his nerves all day because I had tested into a more advanced circuitry course that day, and I just wouldn't shut up about it. Eventually, my brother had had enough: after I opened my mouth to brag once more, he came up behind me and locked his right arm around my head.

Mom would have none of it and quickly sent him to our room, but the memory of the incident never left me. I can still recall with perfect clarity the moment when I realized that I couldn't move; that if he wanted to, he could have probably ended my life right then and there with a well placed twist of his arm. I knew he wouldn't have killed me, but the fear was present nonetheless.

That is the feeling that overcomes me when the girl from One yanks me up and wraps her arm around my neck. There's a knife in her other hand; she dangles it just inches away from my face.

"What's this? Did you think you could just _leave_?" She snarles.

I can't breath.

"I really wish I could make this one quick, but I happen to be in a very bad mood right now. I haven't had any kills so far! Can you believe it? That boneheaded boy from Two took out both of the tributes I was working on." The girl loosens her grip a little with these words, and I gasp for air. My relief is short-lived, however, as I can soon feel the tip of the knife's blade graze my cheek.

"Please..." I beg, though I'm not sure for what exactly.

 _Please don't drag it out. Please don't make my little brother watch his sister get cut up to bits on live TV. Please just get it over with._

"You better hurry," I wheeze instead, "or your friends'll steal me from you, too."

The girl laughs as if the idea is ridiculous. "Oh, no," she responds, "they're sorting the supplies back there. After I finish up with you, I'll head right back and we'll go hunting. I would love to get my hands on that witch from Seven..." She sighs in longing. That's when I struggle feebly, drawing her attention once again to my impending death.

"Tsk, tsk. Maybe I _will_ take pity on you. I could start with the eyes; take away those and you won't have to see me. That'll be better, right?" She cackles maniacally.

I steel myself for the knife. Seconds pass, and I find myself willing her to just get it over with already. _Why has she gone silent?_

I can't do it. I can't just wait for her to kill me. Something inside me tells me to move, and using all of my strength I wrench myself out of the girl's arms.

To my surprise, she doesn't make a move for me. When I turn to look at the girl, I find her staring at me slack-jawed, eyes wide open in surprise. At first I don't realize what's wrong.

It's only when she falls to the ground do I see the two throwing knives lodged in her back.

"I've been wanting to do that for a _long_ time."

That voice. Of all the tributes for me to bump into now, why him?

The blue eyes are sparkling with mirth. He knows I stand no chance. He must be jumping for joy on the inside. A double kill at the bloodbath- what luck. Actually, it's probably more like quadruple kill, knowing him.

I make no move to run as he comes closer, bending down to retrieve the knives from the girl's back. After doing this he stands up and looks at me appraisingly.

"Well, aren't you in a bad situation? Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you're not as smart as I thought you were."

The words sting. I, Widget Irving, am many things. Plain-looking? Yes. Unathletic? Definitely. Stupid, however...that is the one thing I _know_ I'm not.

I don't think before responding. "I was right about you. You're just as barbaric as I thought you were." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I brace myself for an attack.

He doesn't lunge at me, though. Instead his brow furrows and his mouth twists into a frown. "You know nothing about me," he says.

"I know that you're deadly. And I know that you don't hesitate to kill people. In fact, I'd even say you _enjoy_ this. Killing innocent children. Given your training score you've probably been training for it for years."

And suddenly he's livid. In the blink of an eye he has a hand around my throat and is backing me up into a pile of sandy rock.

"You little _bitch_. Don't you dare make assumptions about me. You. Know. Nothing," with every word his hand gets tighter around my neck.

"I should just kill you right now," he growls.

There are black spots in my vision and I hopelessly gasp for air. The Capitol audience must really be enjoying the show.

Unexpectedly, he lets go. I crumple to the ground, clutching my neck. It hurts like hell, and there will definitely be bruises tomorrow.

When I finally regain enough breath to think straight, I lift my head and look up at him. Ranther glares at me for a moment, then kicks one of the throwing knives in my direction.

"I'll agree with you that I'm deadly," he says menacingly. "But I'm also honorable. And I don't like killing helpless little girls."

He takes a step back before continuing. "You, Irving, are in a bad state right now. Ending you would be too easy. When I face you next it'll be a fair fight. Unless, of course, you manage to get picked off by then." A wry smile follows these words.

I stare at him stupidly until he raises an eyebrow. "I'm doing you a favor here. Don't make me change my mind. Get the hell out, right now."

I don't hesitate after that. I stumble a little on my way out, but eventually manage to pick up my few meager possessions and head for the far-off rubble piles.

So many things have happened in the last ten minutes that I don't think I've fully processed any of them. I should be dead right now. That girl from One had me cornered! She should have taken me out easily.

And Ranther...

What happened? The most terrifying person in these Games, the boy who not three days ago threatened to take me out the first chance he got... _spared_ me?

Never in a million years did I think those eyes could hold anything akin to mercy.

The thoughts run through my brain at a million miles a minute, and I shake my head to clear it.

The grasslands make me nervous. The only cover is provided by the piles of rubble and occasional two-story stone structures. There would be almost nothing to stop someone from seeing me here.

After about ten minutes I begin to tire. There must not be very many tributes in this area; I've been walking for a while now and I haven't seen anyone since Ranther. My eyes still survey the landcape for my runaway ally, but I see no trace of the little girl from Eight.

Eventually I decide I can't walk anymore. The heat from the sun makes every step I take seem like a mile. There is sweat pouring down my face, and the stinging in my leg is relentless.

Needing a moment of rest, I collapse next to a bush a few feet from what looks to be an abandoned castle. The stone entryway is dark, the inside of the structure a shadowy abyss. I assume no one is inside because I can't hear anything, but I may very well be wrong.

Ranther was right. I am in a bad state. The only things I have are a throwing knife and some rope. My backpack is in the hands of some girl from Ten who knows nothing about its contents. I have no food or water, and no safe place to rest overnight. My only ally in the arena is nowhere to be found.

It'll be a miracle if I even survive the night.

When my heartrate finally slows and the sweat stops dripping down my face, I start to evaluate my options.

I need to find water. That should be my number one priority, I decide. Without some sort of water source I won't last very long out here in this heat. If I come across Mukta along the way, so be it. For now, though, I have to assunme that I am not going to find her.

That is if she's even still alive. I'm fairly sure she is, given her position before the gong sounded. She _must_ have made it out.

Then something occurs to me. Shouldn't the cannons have sounded by now? The Bloodbath has to have finished, and they usually reveal the number of people dead after the initial fighting has wrapped up. Why would they wait so long? Could there still be fighting going on?

It takes a lot of willpower to pick myself up again, but the building dryness in my throat serves as motivation. I know I need water, but where am I going to find it?

I turn to the bush beside me. With all that's happened to me already since these Games began, I hadn't really thought of it as a plant. Now that I look closely, however, I see that it's a berry bush.

If only I'd been better at that damn berry station!

The berries are small and grow in tiny clusters, a vivid red in color. As tempting as it is to just pop a few in my mouth, I can't take the risk. I want to say that they're aridberries, but there's a good chance I'm wrong. Poisoning myself on the first day would be a very dumb way to go.

My thirst seems to intensify, protesting my movements as I wrench myself away from the bush. The berry juice would feel so good right now...

Then something occurs to me. Berries need water, too. How else would they get so juicy in the first place?

I scan the area once again, this time taking note of the landscape. Where I came from, back towards the Cornucopia, dry grass is all I can see. This berry bush is the first actual plant I've come across.

Then I turn my head the other way, and mentally cheer. For just forty feet away from me I spy two more bushes just like the one next to me.

Before I know it I am sprinting eagerly towards the bushes, knife and rope in hand. The running isn't doing much for my thirst, but my excitement seems to have overshadowed that issue for the moment.

Sure enough, I spot several more bushes just a little distance away from the new pair. Walking up to _those_ bushes leads me to even more.

As I follow this trail I notice the area around me evolves. Trees begin popping up here and there, and the grass under my feet becomes brighter. I even spot flowers sprouting up from underneath a piece of rubble.

A rustling from the trees brings me back to reality. All at once I stop, reflexively clutching my knife. I hold my breath as I listen, waiting for the threat to reveal itself.

The rustling becomes louder, and I prepare to run.

Suddenly a furry brown squirrel appears from the leaves of one of the trees in front of me. It lifts its tiny head and sniffs the air experimentally before scurrying down the trunk and disappearing into a neighboring bush.

I let out a sigh of relief. No tributes. No Ranther or Zandria or Maya. Just a squirrel.

After I calm down a bit, I resume the trek. The heat continues to suffocate me a little more with every step I take, and I can only hope I reach the water soon.

My surroundings have become almost jungle-like now, with trees obscuring my view of everything. It's bizarre, to say the least, to have gone from dry grasslands to jungle in such little time.

I am too preoccupied with my thoughts to notice the trees thinning, so when I do enter the clearing it takes me by surprise.

My eyes take in the sight before me. The clearing is a decent size, with beautiful flora bordering the edges. In the center is a breathtaking pond, the surface of the water sparkling like diamonds.

I don't think before running towards it and taking a drink. The water is clear and I can see all the way to the very bottom. The liquid is cold despite the heat and feels delightful on my throat.

In the back of my mind it occurs to me that I should have disinfected it first, but I quickly cast that thought aside.

I don't know how long I sit there, drinking and drinking, but eventually I sit back and take a break. From somewhere in the trees I can hear bird calls, and the sound makes me feel somewhat peaceful.

It's then that I hear it. Breathing. Slow, tortured, labored breathing, the sound of someone or something struggling to stay alive.

My heartbeat picks up again in my chest and I scramble to get to my feet. I clutch the knife so tightly that my knuckles go white, and for a moment I stand there, anxiously searching for the source of the sounds.

After about three seconds my eyes finally locate it. I hadn't seen it before in my haste to get water, but now that my head's cleared I spot it easily.

Partially concealed by leaves and branches, a small dark form lies in the shadows. I approach the thing tentatively, still unsure of what exactly it is. As I get closer I make out limbs and a torso.

My breath catches in my throat.

This struggling form is a person. A tribute.

I pause a few steps away from this person, taking in the sight before me. Blood stains the ground, dyeing the surrounding green grass a dark red. The person is turned on their side facing away from me, so I can't tell exactly who it is without going closer still.

Every nerve in my body screams at me to flee. Whatever or whoever did this could very well still be nearby. I know where water is now. I'll just come back later, at a safer time.

But then I see something that fills my heart with dread.

The person's head moves a fraction, drawing my gaze to the tribute's hair. Hair that is done up in one of the neatest, most familiar braids I've ever seen.

All at once I am running towards her. "Mukta!" I gasp frantically, hands reaching to pull the girl towards me. She lets out a pained moan as I roll her over, and I instantly let her go.

Her shirt is soaked with blood, and the fabric is torn in several places. As gently as I can, I roll the fabric upwards until her stomach is exposed.

A powerful dizziness overtakes me upon seeing the full extent of her injuries.

There's blood, so much blood. Her stomach is slashed open so drastically that I wonder how on earth she's still alive. She must have lain here for some time, though, because on some parts of the wound the blood has dried already.

Three long gashes run all the way down her stomach, and I avert my eyes from the worst parts of the wounds as quickly as I can. My gaze turns hopelessly to her face, where I discover her eyes are now open a crack.

"Widget?" she croaks.

I take the girl's hand in mine and brush a tangled strand of hair from her face.

"Mukta..." I whisper. Her name is the only thing I can think of to say.

The girl's eyes open a little wider then, and she squeezes my hand feebly. "You came," she says hoarsely.

"I wish I'd come sooner," I reply tearfully. "Mukta, what happened to you?"

When my ally closes her eyes and doesn't reply for several seconds, I panic. "Mukta? Mukta? Can you hear me?"

Finally they open again, and I can tell even this small action takes a lot of strength. "The girl from Seven," comes her reply, barely audible. "She and Eleven...they followed me from the Cornucopia. I tried to run, Widget..."

"Shh..." I tell her. "They're not here anymore."

"They thought I was dead. I've been here forever..."

"It's okay. It's fine. You're gonna be fine," I tell her.

She shakes her head at this, then hisses in pain. "No, I'm not."

I don't bother saying anything else. I know she's right.

Her eyes open fully now, and she looks terrified. "I don't want to die, Widget," she gasps. "I haven't even started living yet."

Those words make me angry, but not at her. This is all the Capitol's fault. I hate them for this. If I hadn't shown up, Mukta would have bled out alone in a pile of foliage. No one deserves to go like that. No one deserves to die here at all!

They're probably delighted. I wouldn't be surprised if there were Capitolians at home smiling right now, satisfied by the bloodshed. Or maybe the more emotional ones are shedding fake tears, pretending to care about this girl's death.

Well, I hate each and every one of them. Every single one of those people. How can they do this to _children_?

"I hate this!" I yell. "And I hate _them_!"

Upon uttering these words I hear Beetee's voice in my head.

 _That Arena will terrify you. It will make you sad and confused and angry all at once, I can guarantee it. But you can never, ever, ever criticize it._

Nuts and bolts! Dammit, Widget, bite your stupid tongue!

My mind races now, trying to come up with a way to correct my mistake. "I hate those girls who did this to you. I hate Maya and that other girl."

 _There. That's what I meant, Capitol. Please don't kill me off._

"Do you have anyone on the other side waiting for you?" Mukta whispers, eyelids fluttering shut.

It takes me a second to understand what she means.

"Yes," I reply. "I have my grandmother. She died when I was ten."

Mukta smiles faintly. "I'll say hi to her for you."

A tear slides down my cheek, landing on our clasped hands.

"Are you crying? Don't cry..." my ally says faintly.

"Her name was Jasmine," I tell her.

"Noted."

Both of us go silent. Mukta's breathing is so quiet I can barely hear it now. Her eyes have been closed for a few minutes, and I can tell she won't last very long.

I hum softly to fill the silence, squeezing her hand gently every so often. I want her to know she's not alone.

After about another minute Mukta exhales a little too loudly. I listen, waiting for her to take in another breath.

She never does.

The boom of the canon is loud, and makes me jump a little. I stand up, taking one last look at her before I leave. I feel too numb to cry.

It's then I decide that maybe dying won't be so bad after all. Because how can I live now, with Mukta's pained little face haunting me every day of my life?

 _Boom. Boom. Boom._

More canons sound now, one after another. I count eight more in total before the silence resumes.

So this is why the canons didn't sound until hours after the initial fight at the Cornucopia. They were waiting for Mukta to die so they could count her as an official Bloodbath death.

It's dark now, and this makes navigation a little more difficult. Eventually I find a what I deem to be suitable shelter- a wide hole in a tree trunk, just big enough for me to crawl into. I cover the entrance with leaves and branches just as the anthem starts to play and the faces of the fallen are broadcast in the sky.

The girl from One is first. Seeing her face, arrogantly smirking at me from the sky above, is still surprising to me. Who knew I'd outlast a Career?

Next comes the boy from Five, and then both of the tributes from Six.

They skipped District Three. So Clink is still alive, then. Maybe he managed to find an ally, after all. Wiress must be happy.

Pretty soon Mukta's sweet face is staring at me, and I have to blink away tears. Her last moments are too fresh in my mind. The boy from Eight follows, and then the girl from Nine. The boys from Eleven and Twelve are last to appear, and then the sky goes dark once more.

The heat seems to be subsiding. I try to make myself as invisible as possible, burrowing myself deeper into the tree.

I hope my dreams are pleasant tonight. I could use an escape right about now.

—

 **A/N:** _A big thanks once again goes out to Mihica, my editor, who makes me twice as excited to get these chapters out. And thank you once again to all my friends whose names I borrowed for this story. Sorry I have to kill you all off…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Resignation**

 _ **A/N:** Hello again! Sorry this took a while. I had a bunch of yucky exams to sit and stuff. Not as much action as I initially planned, but the word count was already adding up to over 5,000 and I hadn't even gotten to the bloodiest part! Hence the cliffhanger at the end. As always, thanks for reading! You guys have no idea how happy getting those email alerts makes me! :)_

* * *

I awaken to rustling outside my shelter and am immediately on high alert.

I can tell from the steady patterns that the noise is someone walking. My vision of the outside is obscured by the leaves covering my hollow, but I don't dare move a muscle. Instead I hold my breath and listen carefully to the footsteps as they get louder, indicating that whoever's there is headed in my direction.

The footfalls are lighter than what I would expect Ranther's or one of the other Career's to be.

 _It's probably a girl_ , I conclude, running through all the possible candidates in my mind. Only four girls were killed yesterday in the Bloodbath, which leaves a lot of options.

And I don't think I'd win in a confrontation with _any_ of them.

The rustling stops for a moment and then resumes once more. By now I'm burning with anxious curiosity. Little by little and as quietly as I can manage, I sit up a tiny bit straighter and angle my head to look out through a small gap in the leaves.

The sun hasn't even made an appearance yet this morning, so my eyes have difficulty making out the figure in the dim light. When I do, however, I discover that my initial assessment was right. It _is_ a girl.

I watch her as she travels back and forth in the darkness. She seems to be walking from tree to tree, pausing to examine each perennial before moving on to look at the next.

What is she looking for?

All of a sudden the girl stiffens, swiveling her head towards something I can't see. A moment later she's dashing in the opposite direction, disappearing from sight.

I soon discover her reason for fleeing. Not three seconds after she vanishes, another figure bursts through the trees. This one is taller, and in the faint early morning moonlight I can make out a glinting blade clutched in one hand.

"Well, _shit_!" the person swears furiously, kicking a pile of leaves in anger.

Dread courses through me. I remember that voice. It's the same voice that laughed at me when I couldn't climb in training, the same voice that I'm sure Mukta heard as she ran for her life yesterday.

The girl from Seven continues to mutter things under her breath. Pretty soon yet another person emerges, and by her reaction I can guess who it is.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses. "You're supposed to be sleeping!"

"Oh yeah, sure," the other girl replies sarcastically. "Why don't I go sleep unprotected while there are still _thirteen_ other people running around in this Arena. That sounds like a perfect plan."

"Oh, please," Maya counters. "You weren't unprotected. I wasn't even five minutes away. I would've heard someone coming."

Her ally pinches the bridge of her nose. "Do you remember how long it took to take out that girl yesterday after the Bloodbath? Just a few swipes of a knife. I could have been dead in minutes."

Maya turns away from the girl from Eleven, stalking angrily over to my tree. I don't even breathe; I'm paralyzed with fear as she leans up against it and lets out a loud yawn. The entrance to my little shelter is hidden pretty well with foliage, but if she were to just look a little closer she'd spot me in an instant.

" _So_ ," Maya's ally continues, annoyed, "I'd prefer it if you _didn't_ wander off to chase after harmless weaklings."

At this, the girl from Seven snorts. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," the blonde says, condescendingly.

"I don't _understand_? You're right. I _don't_ understand why you're so insistent upon going off on some manhunt to find people who pose us absolutely no threat! It's stupid!"

Maya growls now, a noise that cuts darkly through the air and bleeds irritation. "It would have been so great for us just now if I'd have gotten that girl!" she stage-whispers. "You just don't get it. Kills are _everything_ in these Games, Mihica."

"No, they're-"

"But because whoever that ditz was got away from me, that kill's gonna go to someone else. And that someone else is gonna be the one with all the sponsors."

Maya's ally replies slowly, as if she's speaking to a small child. "We don't need _sponsors_. You have a knife. We have _food_."

"And so will those guys from One and Two. But in the end they'll have fancy armor or something."

"Fancy armor?" Mihica's tone is sarcastic.

"I don't know, Mihica!" The blonde girl takes a few steps forward, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation. "Whatever the sponsors give them. And that fancy armor is why one of them will end up leaving this thing alive instead of _me_!"

The ensuing silence is unsettling. I can't see Mihica's expression through the leaves, but I imagine it's unamused.

"Oh shoot, Mihica, I... you know what I meant. One of _us_. That's what I meant." Maya sounds sheepish now.

"Sure. Whatever. I still think hunting is stupid." It's difficult not to notice the hard edge in the Mihica's voice now. "We need to lie low and let the rest kill each other off. If we play our cards right, we can rethink things again once we get to the final eight."

Maya just shakes her head furiously. Her stubbornness is getting on _my_ nerves, and I'm not even the one trying to negotiate with her.

"Look. For some unknown reason, there are still plenty of weaklings left. I'm pretty sure the girl who got away from me just now was that pesky thing from Five. Besides her, that minnow from Four's still out there. So is that girl from Twelve, and _both_ from Three!" Maya gestures to the woods and pauses, letting her words sink in.

"Hell," she says, quieter this time, "when's the last time both of the lab rats even made it past the Bloodbath?"

 _In the 69th Hunger Games, the male tribute from Three made it to the fourth day,_ I mentally answer her question.

 _No, Widget, that was rhetorical._ She's making a point. And as much as I hate what she's saying, Maya's right.

"As long as there's easy prey, I'm going to hunt. And if you can't deal with it, maybe this alliance was not the best arrangement."

With that, the silence falls again, and Mihica turns back to the woods, defeated. After a moment, Maya follows her, glancing around the area before disappearing into the trees.

I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. That was _way_ too close a call. Still recovering from the shock of encountering others, I ponder the scene I just witnessed. It was interesting to see how other tributes behave with each other, sobering to hear Maya dismiss her ally out loud like that.

 _That's why one of them will end up leaving this thing alive instead of me._ Because true friendships don't exist here. Allies are a means to an end. And there was nothing the girl from Eleven could have done except surrender to Maya, because the blonde girl could have skewered her right then and there if she persisted.

I wouldn't want to be in that situation. How can you really trust someone when you know that they won't hesitate to kill you when you cease to be useful to them?

I hadn't had a chance to be in an alliance for obvious reasons. My heart throbs in my chest as the memories flood my mind - Mukta training, Mukta targeted by the Careers, Mukta's blood staining the grass red. It's all so fresh that part of me can't quite believe it all really happened. That the girl I saw giving interviews in that ugly patchwork dress, that the girl I'd joked with over rich Capitol lunches, that the girl whose vibrant energy radiated nothing but life, is dead.

But I knew it had to happen. I knew in my heart that even if we managed to beat the odds, that even if we managed to fly under the radar and hold out until the very end, even then we couldn't both live.

So why does it hurt so much to think about it?

I am unexpectedly distracted from my somber thoughts by my stomach gurgling painfully. The gnawing intensifies, and I realize that I haven't eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

I assess my situation. I have a throwing knife and some rope. There are definitely tributes nearby, at least one of whom is on the hunt. I have no idea if the berries that grow on the bushes here are edible or not, and my hunting experience in nonexistent. How would I cook anything anyway? Starting a fire here would be like sending up a flare. The smoke would immediately draw attention to my location.

So what do I do?

I peek outside once again, this time shuffling into a crouched position. My leg twinges as I move. I'd forgotten that I hadn't left the Cornucopia yesterday completely unscathed.

Another stomach growl is what leads me to move. Staying in my shelter all day definitely won't get me fed, and I'll start to get weak if I don't eat soon. As quietly as I can manage, I push aside the leaves and branches at the front of the tree hollow, drawing in a quick breath when I hear a twig snap underneath my feet. After a moment's pause, I crawl out of the small shelter and into the morning sunlight.

As soon as I'm out, I back up into the shadows. My best bet would be to hide if someone were to emerge from the trees. Fighting them is barely an option, unless for some reason they are weaponless and have lost the ability to move at all.

 _Focus, Widget._ Food. I need food. Once I get it, I can crawl right back into my little tree hole.

I draw my knife and slowly make my way through the shadows, listening intently for any signs of others. The trees, for now, are relatively quiet. I notice some small bright yellow fruit growing on some of them, and curse my incompetence. There's a good chance at least one of the plants I've seen has been edible. If I had just tried a little harder at those plant stations I might have had food by now.

I continue walking, footsteps light and senses heightened. Every single chirp and rustling of leaves has me turning my head around in alarm. I am too preoccupied with checking for other tributes that I don't recognize my surroundings until I'm standing right in front of the water.

The clearing is just as breathtaking as it was yesterday, but the location feels different now. The crystal clarity of the small pond is no longer a sight of relief, but rather one of terror. The surrounding bushes have gone from welcoming to foreboding, and I can remember the exact spot where I found the girl from Eight last night.

I shake my head to clear it. I can't let my own memories distract me from my mission. Where there's water, there's life. There has to be _something_ I can eat around here.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, a hare darts across the grass and disappears into a nearby bush. It's too fast for me to have any hope of catching it.

Then an idea comes to me. I have rope, don't I? If I can't catch anything on my own, why not have a trap catch it for me?

I run over to a tree near the edge of the clearing. Its base is wide and the branches look strong. If I could climb, perhaps I'd have decided to rest up there for the night.

It's perfect for a snare.

Wasting no time, I tie a firm knot around the base of the trunk. Remembering what the snare instructor said to me in training, I double-knot it for good measure. When I deem the result to be acceptable, I toss the rope over a higher branch above my head and try to remember all of the tips I received on resistance two days earlier.

The snare takes me longer than I expected. Working on real trees is very different than with rubber poles on the floor of a gymnasium, and at first figuring out where to tie everything proves difficult. But after a few errors and minor, silent temper-tantrums, I'm finally finished. I spend the next couple of minutes gazing at my work with satisfaction.

There! I did it. I knew I'd figure out a way to get food somehow.

I stare at the snare expectedly, waiting for food to appear. The gnawing in my stomach, which the snare had momentarily distracted me from, returns full force.

 _Well, shoot._ Sometimes I surprise myself with my lack of foresight. In my excitement I had forgotten that making the snare does not equal instant nourishment. I would still have to wait, possibly for hours, for an animal to even get caught. And then there would be the matter of cooking it.

 _Nuts and bolts!_

I'm stuck. There's nothing left to do. I can't stab anything with my knife, and I can't tell which berries will feed me and which ones will kill me. I am the epitome of a lost cause.

Barely holding back tears, I crawl into the shadows once more. I soon find myself cowering in bloodstained grass, and realize that I am in the very same spot that sheltered Mukta in her final hours. What a parallel.

I don't know how long I lie there hopelessly, watching the shadows around me move as the sun makes its daily journey through the sky. The protesting of my empty stomach serves as a continuous reminder of my uselessness. It's pathetic, really. Only now do I stop to think about what a truly sheltered life I've lived. There hasn't been a day that I can remember where I've skipped a meal. My life in Three was never extravagant; the food I ate at PATT was always bland and unworthy of excitement, each calorie calculated precisely to enhance brain function. The Capitol didn't give us flavor, but they would never let their next generation of engineers, inventors, and scientists starve.

How many people in Panem have felt this hunger their entire lives? How many have gone weeks without anything substantial? I think of all the factory kids back home, and how I would roll my eyes or curse them under my breath for stealing and begging in the streets. They must all be laughing at me now. _Ha! Look at that Tech Training girl, giving up because of a little empty stomach._

Dash must think I'm weak. I can hear him sighing and see him shaking his head at me. _Really, Widget?_ he'd say. _That's all the will you have to live? Your stomach growling is enough to make you give up seeing Mom, Dad, Coyle, and me again? You must not love us all that much._

 _I do,_ I tell him in my head. _I love you so much._

 _Then get the hell up!_ The Dash in my head is clenching his fists like he does when he's really mad. I want to listen to him. I scream at my body to move, but can't bring myself to sit up.

 _I'm sorry, Dash. I just can't. Please forgive me._ I close my eyes and surrender myself to the forest, listening to the sounds slowly fade out around me.

—

It's only when I open my eyes again do I realize that I had fallen asleep. The sun is still shining brightly, but the heat isn't as prominent as it was before. I conclude it must be around mid-afternoon, and that I had been out for at least two hours.

As I come to my senses, I realize that I'm not alone in the clearing anymore.

Despite my earlier resignation, fear shoots up my spine and my heart seizes in my chest. What was I thinking, curling up here like this? The truth of my ordeal hits me, and I quickly conclude that I don't want to die.

I am still, thankfully, concealed by shadows. But just as I spotted Mukta here yesterday, it won't be long until whoever's out there spots me.

I scan the clearing until my eyes land on the other tribute. She's very quiet, and if I hadn't been so paranoid earlier I may not have heard her at all. She steps forward into the light, and looks in every direction before making her way to the pond in the middle.

It's the girl from Twelve, I realize. The one who helped me with fires on my first day. A wayward strand of black hair falls into her face as she bends down to drink, and she pushes it behind her ear.

Maybe if I stay very quiet she won't see me. I have no idea how a fight between us would turn out. We're around the same height, but she looks extremely frail from afar. I doubt I could outrun her, but I do have a knife. Maybe I'd be able to take her out without getting injured too badly.

On the other hand, she does have this mysterious air about her that scares me. Life in District Twelve's supposed to be rough. Maybe the dangers of her home have toughened her up. She could have years of fighting experience.

After drinking her fill she stands up and heads in the same direction she came from. I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps we won't have to fight after all.

Then something unexpected happens.

To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the snare. I had been prepared to abandon the contraption in my hopeless state. I don't realize how close in proximity the girl is to my setup until she activates it.

There's a loud snap as she steps on the trigger branch. Immediately, the loop of rope tightens around her ankle, and the girl lets out a frightened yelp as the weight on the other side of the support branch plummets to the ground. I watch, amazed, as she thrashes in the air, suspended by her ankle four feet above the ground.

She swears audibly, and desperately tries to reach up and untie herself. I didn't think my trap would be able to hold a person, to be honest. The ankle suspension snare is the only one I know how to do with an above average success rate, but I didn't think I'd tied the ropes tight enough to trap a person. I'm positive that if one of the Careers had been caught in it they would have broken the trap, but years of eating practically nothing has made the girl from Twelve almost weightless.

I debate my next move. I don't think I can kill her. Knowing me, she'd somehow get ahold of my knife in the fight and slash me in the face with it. If I leave her here it won't be long until someone else finds her and finishes her off.

Then a thought occurs to me. I need food, and soon. She probably knows a lot more than I do in that department. Maybe if I let her down, she'd consider helping me out.

No. She wouldn't tell me anything. Or maybe she'd tell me and proceed to strangle me to death. But perhaps if she were desperate enough...

A plan forms in my mind. It's evil, and I hate myself for even considering it. But it might very well be my only way.

I cough just loud enough for her to hear me, and step out of the shadows. The girl's head turns frantically in my direction, and there's obvious fear in her eyes before she masks it with something else.

"Three?" There's relief in her voice. She had probably been expecting someone more intimidating to emerge.

"Twelve? What a surprise. You're not a rabbit. What are you doing in my snare?" My words come out snarky and sarcastic, and I hate it.

" _Your_ snare?" She says disbelievingly. Apparently the thought of a tribute from Three knowing anything that doesn't involve computers is too hard to fathom.

"Yes, _my snare._ I was hoping to catch something more nutritious."

"Listen, Three," she starts. "How about we forget this whole thing? Just untie me, and I'll leave you alone. Deal?"

"Tempting. But what am I going to do for dinner then, Twelve?"

"There's plenty to eat. C'mon, just untie me." Her tone has a note of desperation in it, and I hate myself.

"I wish I could. But it's going to get dark soon, and I have to find food."

I turn away and take a few steps in the opposite direction.

"No, wait!" She gasps. "Please, Three! I'll do anything! Just please untie me!"

I turn my head and look her over. Being upside down means her blood's rushed to her head, making her face red.

"Alright. Wait just one second." I walk to one of the bushes on the edge of the clearing and pluck a small pink berry from in between the leaves.

There were two types of pink berries I can remember struggling with at the berry station during training. One was the harmless partridge berry, and the other the toxic, cardiac arrest-inducing yew berry. I vaguely remember the instructor telling me that one grows on trees and one doesn't, but I can't remember which was which.

The girl from Twelve might, on the other hand.

I walk up to her quickly and hold out the berry in front of her face.

"I'll let you go if you eat this."

The girl takes a moment to register my words, but then shakes her head immediately. "What? Look, Three, just untie the damn-"

"Eat it. Or I'm leaving."

"No! I'm not eating _that_! What are you trying to do, kill me?"

"Why?" I ask. "Is it poisonous?"

"Yes!" She exclaims, then pauses. "Well, maybe. I don't know. I've never seen it before."

I shrug. "I'm fairly sure it's not poisonous," I lie. I actually have no idea if it's poisonous or not, but how else am I going to find out?

The girl narrows her eyes at me before shaking her head once more. "I don't have a death wish, sorry. Just let me down."

"You don't have very many options. Eat the berries and I'll let you go."

"Whatever, Three. Leave. I'll get down by myself."

I smirk annoyingly and roll the berry in my palm. "The girl from Seven's around here, you know. She's pretty bloodthirsty. She'd finish you off in a second."

The girl from Twelve spits at me in response. "Screw you, Three."

"Hanging upside down for hours will kill you, too. Trust me. It's physics."

When all I earn is more glares, I shrug once more. "Fine, then. Have it your way."

She doesn't make a sound as I take a few steps away from her. When I turn back, her upside down face is still glaring at me.

She's not reacting because she's not scared of me. She knows I won't kill her. The only way to get her to cooperate is to make her scared.

So I decide to do just that. Without breaking eye contact, I let out a long, blood-curdling scream.

All at once her eyes widen, and she holds a finger to her lips desperately. "Shut up! Are you insane? There's no way they didn't hear you!"

I turn my back again, pretending to walk away. I don't bother moving very quickly. I know what she's going to do next.

"Fine! Give me the fucking berries!"

I hastily hand her the small pink morsel, acutely aware that every second I remain in this area brings me closer to death. Maya's probably already on her way.

The girl shoves the thing in her mouth. I watch as she swallows, and wait with baited breath for her to vomit or shudder or something.

A second passes. Then two. We both stare at each other anxiously, waiting for the potential poison to attack her body.

Nothing happens.

"There! Done! Now let me go, Three! _Please_!"

I didn't intend to let her live. I'd made up my mind that I'd force her to swallow the berry and then leave her here for Maya to finish off.

But my muscles are frozen. As I stare into the girl's terrified brown eyes, I see Mukta staring back at me. The same helplessness that I felt when I watched the life leave her body overcomes me.

I know I shouldn't. I know this girl could turn around and strangle me. But I just can't watch another person die.

I quickly turn to the rope and begin to untie it. It's not fast enough. It turns out that knots have to be extremely tight in order to hold up a person, and my fingers just can't untangle them quickly. In a fit of impatience I slash at the rope with my knife once, twice, _three times_ until the girl from Twelve lands on the ground with a thump.

She wastes no time in picking herself up. The skin around her left ankle is raw and bleeding, and I cringe at my own evil.

"Come here! Follow me!" I say, sprinting off into the bushes.

I register the girl's footsteps behind me, and I jump over bushes and branches all the way to my hollow. I jump in, scooting all the way to the back as the other girl piles in after me.

"Cover up the entrance," I gasp, out of breath. She does as I say, scooping the foliage outside over the hollow and hiding us in shadows. Before I can say anything else, I hear them.

"Maya, wait!" a voice I recognize as the girl from Eleven's pants.

"No! I already waited for you to finish covering up the food piles. If we don't hurry, they'll be gone soon!"

With that the blonde girl races out of sight, her ally struggling to keep up.

After a moment the outside goes silent. The only sounds are those of mine and the girl from Twelve's heavy breathing.

It's an extremely tight squeeze in the hollow, and I get a much better look at her up close.

I don't think I was wrong in assuming she probably ate nothing back home. She's so skinny I have to wonder how the force of being pulled up by her ankle didn't snap her in half. Her eyes have dark circles under them, and her black hair is dull and matted. My gaze travels down to her legs and that nasty rope burn around her left ankle.

When my eyes once again meet hers, she's glaring at me again. But I'm not scared of her. Now that I'm close enough to truly see her I realize that I'm probably twice her weight, and could probably pin her down with ease.

"You're an asshole."

The words cut through the air, penetrating my soul. I wince. I can't deny it; the stunt with the berries was anything but kind.

"But I'm an honest asshole," I reply. "I kept my word. You aren't still hanging upside down."

She continues to stare at me, but it isn't pure hatred anymore.

"Was that really your trap, or were you bluffing?" she says finally.

"I told you already. I'm an honest asshole. That snare was all me."

She whistles softly and tilts her head back, closing her eyes in what I assume is exhaustion.

"And a smart asshole. That rope thing isn't easy to pull off."

The silence resumes once again. I don't know what to say.

"Although," she continues after a moment, "letting an enemy into your shelter? Probably not the wisest move."

She's right. If she leaves here later I'll have to find somewhere else to hide.

Is she my enemy, though? Putting aside the obvious fact that I'd have to die for her to live, she hasn't done anything to hurt me since we left the clearing. Of course, that could just be because she's in bad shape right now. She could very well turn on me in ten minutes after she catches her breath.

Yet something tells me she won't do it. This girl's a weakling, like me. Is it really in her best interest to pick fights?

Feeling somewhat bold, I ask put my thoughts into a question. " _Are_ you my enemy?"

She looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Aren't I? You _did_ just try to kill me."

"Correction," I say, "I wasn't trying to kill you specifically. I was - and still am - extremely hungry, and I _suck_ at berry identification. Then you just had to go and step in my snare, and, well...how else do I determine whether or not something is poisonous?"

The girl snorts and shakes her head. "Ever heard of the rub test? You just rub the juice on your skin. If the skin goes _red-ly,_ then it's _deadly_."

"Nope. Never heard of it. And they must not be great poets in Twelve, because that rhyme is awful."

The girl chuckles and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Aw, man," she groans. "This is all too much. Who the hell are you?"

"Widget Irving. District Three. Professional, honest asshole and master of snares."

We sit there in the hollow, this girl and I, listening to the sounds of the Arena.

"I have to say," she utters appraisingly after a moment in a quieter voice, "when Haymitch was telling us who to stay away from, he never mentioned you. You don't _look_ like you should be dangerous."

"Tell your mentor I'm flattered. But maybe he was right to keep me off the list. Maybe it's a sign."

She yawns at this before shaking her head.

"A sign?"

"You're weak. I'm weak. No one's placing their bets on us right now. Maybe we'll be less weak together."

"Be serious. An alliance? After that stunt you pulled out there?"

"What's _your_ name, Twelve?"

She narrows her eyes again, and for a second I think she won't tell me. "Kim," she says finally.

"Oh, yeah! I remember it now. I saw it on TV."

"Hmm," Kim replies distractedly. Her eyes don't seem to be able to stay open for very long. I can't help but wonder what happened to _her_ last night.

My stomach growls for what has to be the thousandth time today.

"You should go take care of that," she tells me.

I squeeze my way past her and stick my head outside the shelter. The sky is beginning to darken, and I am very much aware that I could run into someone at any second. As quietly and quickly as I can manage, I dart out of the hollow and towards a few berry bushes opposite me.

I pick several handfuls of what I now know to be partridge berries and cradle them in the bottom of my shirt, which I hold out like a bag. As I turn to pluck the next bush's worth, I glimpse something bright yellow peeking up from the ground.

Dandelions! I'm pretty sure _those_ are edible.

When I'm done foraging I carefully make my way back to the hollow. I'm surprised to find Kim still there; a large part of me thought she would have fled while I was gone.

One of her eyes opens as I crawl back inside the shelter.

"Not bad," she whispers.

"Hungry?" I hold a dandelion out to her in the palm of my hand.

She seems surprised by my offer. "Sure. Thanks."

I eat like I've never seen food before. My mother would definitely be ashamed.

After every last berry is gone I sit back and observe my new ally. At least I _think_ she's an ally. She never did agree to it.

Kim's eyes are closed, and I can tell she won't be able to stay awake much longer. "You can sleep first," I tell her. "I'll take first watch."

Because that's what allies are supposed to do, right? Take shifts? It seems like a smart idea, even though half a night of sleep sounds less than appealing.

I receive only a hum in response. As the minutes pass I hear Kim's breathing even out, and her head droops to her shoulder.

I spend a few hours observing the darkening sky through the foliage. When the anthem plays through the Arena, I lean forward a little and tilt my gaze to the sky.

There are no faces tonight. In my head it makes sense: I don't remember hearing any cannons, after all. My brain quickly does the math, and dread courses through me when I realize that there are still fifteen people alive.

Fifteen people. Fourteen tributes who need to die if I want to see my family again.

One of whom is sitting right in front of me.

Killing Kim would be so easy. She was so quick to trust me, even after I tortured her upside down. That speaks volumes about what a bad shape she's in. What was it Mihica said earlier today? _Just a few swipes of a knife..._

No. I couldn't kill her. It would be a bad idea. I am not in the position to be choosy with my allies right now. I don't know the half of what could happen to me out here alone.

One thing I do know, however, is that there will be death tomorrow. The Capitol loves bloodshed, and a day without any this early in the Games is a rarity. They won't be satisfied for long.

—

Hours later I find myself getting very tired. It becomes harder and harder for me to keep my eyes open, and the soothing repetition of Kim's breathing beside me acts as a sort of lullaby. But I can't wake her up just yet. She was dead on her feet yesterday; if I rouse her early I won't be doing either one of us any favors.

I recite the periodic table in my head to try and keep myself focused. I get all the way to Protactinium before I hear it.

Someone is screaming. The sound is faint, which indicates that it isn't that closeby. That fact, however, doesn't lessen the chill that shoots down my spine.

The screaming doesn't stop. Instead the sound gets louder as the screamer gets closer. There are words thrown in, now. "Please! Please! Someone, anyone! Please!"

I gently shake Kim's shoulder. She jolts awake, banging her head on the roof of the hollow.

"Shh," I whisper. "Something's going on."

She furrows her brows, confusion washing over her features.

The screaming cuts off suddenly.

"Are they dead?" Kim whispers.

"No cannon," I answer.

Just as I'm about to suggest we go back to sleeping, one last word cuts through the air.

"WIDGET!"

—

 _ **A/N:** Reviews appreciated!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Tremors**

 **A/N:** _I am incredibly jealous of everyone lucky enough to already be enjoying summer vacation. I still have three more agonizing weeks until freedom, and six final exams to take. Hang in there, fellow school prisoners! We can do it! Anyway, here's chapter eight._

* * *

Every so often, the laboratory workers in Three have to attend mandatory safety briefings. They're always held on Fridays and last the entire day. My parents, as laboratory workers themselves, are no exception to this rule; two or three times a year before the Games, I would find myself home alone, basking in the short-lived freedom brought about by a lack of supervision.

On one such evening last year, I was excitedly sneaking bits of non-productive sugar food from the special occasions cabinet when I heard a loud crash from down the hall.

The noise startled me, and I swore as the cookie tumbled from my hands and crumbled on the kitchen tiles below.

"Dash?" I called out, suspecting that my older brother had knocked something over. He often got spontaneously angry, and household objects commonly became the unsuspecting targets of his rage.

Then I remembered that Dash had left the house that morning.

Not a second after the thought entered my head I heard the screaming.

"WIDGET!"

The voice of a little boy. I raced to the bedroom, where I discovered the source of the crying. Coyle, then two, had at some point woken up from his nap and accidentally pulled down the dresser. My little brother was thrashing around frantically, trapped underneath its wooden frame.

I quickly freed him from his predicament, rushing him to the bathroom to clean up the small cut he'd sustained on his left arm. All in all he came out unharmed, if not a little bruised, but the memory of his screams left me wincing every time I saw that ugly wooden thing for a month afterwards.

The entire incident flashes through my mind now, in the darkness of the arena. I jolt upon hearing my own name, and it takes me longer than it should to remind myself that my brother isn't here with me.

Who is it then? Who's tortured voice is that? The only person in these Games who ever really called me by name is dead. Kim clearly isn't dying; she looks at me now, confusion evident in her gaze.

Ranther knows my name. He said it just two days ago as he proclaimed me a girl not worth fighting. But it can't be him, because the day that Amaranth Bernal begs me for help will be the day President Snow abolishes the death penalty.

So then who on earth...?

Then it hits me.

Clink.

It has to be him. I'd forgotten about the boy in my obsession with feeding myself, but it occurs to me now that his tribute photo hasn't been broadcast in the sky yet. He's still alive.

Although that probably won't be true for much longer.

More footsteps. I try to separate them, to try and figure out just how many dangers there are in the vicinity. Beside me, Kim is trembling. The poor girl has just been thrown from one near-death experience into another, with only a quarter-night's rest to recharge.

But who am I kidding? This whole thing is one giant near-death experience.

Well, for most it's just a death experience.

The screaming has reduced to whimpers, with the occasional sob thrown in. I don't dare move a muscle.

A shrill giggle cuts through the night, and I close my eyes reflexively in fear. Beside me, I can hear Kim draw in a quick breath.

"Oh, just look at him. It really is _hilarious_."

If there was any doubt in my mind as to whether or not I was in danger, that doubt has definitely been eradicated.

"But really," the voice, definitely feminine, continues, "I didn't know it would be this fun. Enobaria leaves so much out."

There's an audible grunt, before another voice responds. "Come on. Finish it already. It's been going on long enough."

"You really don't know how to enjoy the moment. It's been a bloodless night, and I'm not about to rush things."

An impatient sigh. "No. Zandria, this is ridiculous. He's a _kid_."

Of course. It just has to be her. I can't go one day without seeing someone malicious.

"Oh, they're all kids. Age is but a number."

"Bullshit. Save your barbarianism for that ass from Nine."

Another loud sob interrupts the conversation, and I cringe at the pain dripping from that one sound. I want to run away. I want to disappear. But at the same time I want to comfort him, this helpless boy from home; I want to ease his suffering.

I am torn.

Then my name once more reaches my ears. "Widget..."

And before I can stop myself, I'm climbing over my ally and clawing for the hollow's exit.

Kim's reaction is immediate. A thin and surprisingly strong hand latches onto my arm, yanking me back. When I turn to look at her, I see her glaring face outlined in shadows.

"Are you crazy? No. _Suicidal_?" she asks me in a barely audible whisper.

"I... I have to..." I struggle to free my arm from her grasp, but the girl from Twelve is unrelenting.

"You have to _what_?"

I don't answer.

"What?" she continues. "You have to give yourself over to a bunch of heartless vultures? For what, Widget?"

I finally yank my arm free, and look away.

"I don't understand. I thought you were smarter than that," she breathes, a note of betrayal and sadness tainting the hushed words.

She's right. She's more than right, but I can't idly sit by while this boy, a child from my own District, dies a mere twenty-five feet away from me. I can't look at her, because I know she won't understand. Her District partner has probably already been shipped home in a box. And not alive.

I can't look at her, because if I do I just might realize my own fallacy.

As I carefully make my way out of the shelter and slip behind a neighboring tree, a wave of helplessness washes over me. What am I doing? I left my knife behind in the hollow. And I'm just a powerless laboratory apprentice - I couldn't save him even if I _were_ armed.

My mentor must be screaming at his monitor for me to turn back.

 _Sorry, Beetee._

In the darkness the trees provide much-needed camouflage as I make my way closer to the scene. The voices have momentarily quieted, but that doesn't make the three tributes ahead any less detectable.

I see the male Career first. He's leaning up against a tree in what should be a casual stance, but the grip he has on his sword handle and the restless way he jiggles his foot on the ground radiates a frustrated impatience. A short distance in front of him is his female counterpart, who exudes an entirely opposite aura. Unlike the other Career, Zandria appears to be completely at ease. She, too, has a sword strapped to her side, except she makes no move to grab it.

The girl from Two appears to be laughing openly at something ahead of her, but my vision is obstructed by branches and I can't see that far ahead. Filled with dread, I carefully tiptoe around the tree directly in front of me and slide as quietly as I can behind the next one, inching my way closer to the Careers.

When I am only fifteen feet away from the male, hidden from view by just darkness and a single wide tree trunk, I stop. My heart pounds furiously in my chest, but nonetheless I cautiously peer out from behind my barrier and scan the space ahead of me for the source of the sobbing.

That's when I see him, kneeling pitifully. His face is angled so that the artificial, Arena-generated moonlight hits him perfectly, clearly illuminating his features.

And he's unrecognizable.

The first thing I notice are the welts. They cover every inch of his face, disfiguring it beyond recognition. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and the other one is barely open; the glinting tear tracks staining his cheeks are the only visible sign of emotion. The rest of him is so red and puffy that I doubt he could frown even if he wanted to.

The sight almost makes me want to throw up. It's something so raw, so painful to my sheltered eyes.

How did this happen to him? What creature lurks in this Arena that has the capacity to inflict so much suffering?

"Widget..." he murmurs, collapsing on the forest floor.

Zandria snorts, kicking dirt into my District partner's face. He barely even registers it.

"What's a Widget? What are you mumbling about, kid?" she demands.

Receiving no answer, the girl huffs, yanking the boy off the ground with unrestrained force. Another tortured sob escapes him as he's pulled to his feet; Clink stumbles a bit before falling back against a tree.

"Zandria, stop it. Who cares? He's delusional. Just stick him and be done!" the other Career throws his hands up in frustration, stalking over to his ally.

"No, I'm really curious now. What's a Widget, kid? Tell me," the girl grunts, tilting Clink's head up by his chin.

"Widget... She..." My District partner's one-eyed gaze travels away from Zandria's face, staring off ahead of him.

"If you don't stick him, I'll do it myself." In one swift movement, the male Career unsheathes his sword. The blade looks sharp and menacing, and for a moment I can only stare at it, entranced. Then Zandria pulls the smaller boy to the side, simultaneously slapping her ally's arm away.

"Oh, shut it. You've had three kills already. This one's _mine_."

"Well, get the hell on with it!"

While the two Careers bicker in the night, Clink's gaze shifts across the trees. His one eye lingers on a spot to my left, before slowly stopping to rest on me.

I freeze, not daring to breathe. Clink's eye is unmoving as he stares at my spot. I tell myself that I'm hidden; the branches and darkness are so thick that they should conceal me completely from his view.

Yet as soon as I shift my weight, he lets out a shrill, bloodcurdling scream.

His demeanor changes completely before everyone's eyes. The thirteen year old lunges towards me, hands outstretched. Zandria stops him from leaving by grabbing the back of his shirt, but his shrieking doesn't cease.

"What the hell, kid?" She yells at him, sharply slapping his welt-covered cheek.

The action seems to stun him momentarily into silence. "Those lava ants must mess up your brain," the girl snorts. "He's an absolute lunatic."

Clink sobs pathetically once more, sinking his knees. I wish so badly I could whisk him away from the masochists before him. No one deserves to suffer like that.

"Why won't you help me?" the younger boy cries, lifting his head suddenly and looking in my direction.

The male Career shuffles his feet, glancing at his ally somewhat pleadingly. "Zandria, there is no need to prolong-"

"Oh, come on! This is _funny_! Admit it!"

My District partner's whole body heaves silently. With a groan, he falls onto his back. "Dash said you would!" he yells at the sky. "He told me to find you!"

There are no words to describe the feeling that overcomes me with his statement. I can feel the bile rising in my throat as the meager contents of my stomach threaten to make a reappearance.

"But you don't care," the frail boy sobs. "You left me behind. You leave EVERYONE BEHIND!"

Zandria and her ally exchange glances. For once the girl from Two seems to be uncomfortable. "Maybe you're right," she shrugs, "we're probably just wasting time. I'll stick him."

"I _HATE_ YOU! I _HATE_ THIS!"

Clink continues to scream as Zandria raises her sword.

Then, almost as if sensing the end, he releases one final whimper. "I just want to go home..."

Clink lets out a broken sob as the sword comes down. The canon is instantaneous.

For a moment the two Careers stare at the body, seemingly stunned. Then the boy turns his back and begins trudging away, Zandria close behind him.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

Only when the sounds of their retreating footsteps are gone completely do I step out from behind my tree. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I shouldn't be lingering here at all; I know if I don't clear out for the hovercraft, the Arena will _make_ me clear out. But these thoughts are suppressed by a more powerful urge to come closer, to really see him for myself.

My feet take me nearer and nearer seemingly without my permission. Before long I stop inches away from his face, and something inside me crumbles. I lower myself to the ground, eyes never leaving the shell of the boy who I not long ago stood next to on the Reaping stage.

His own eyes are closed, swollen completely shut now that he isn't putting any effort into keeping them open. The welts are horrendous, but I find that ignoring them isn't that hard. On the contrary, I find it easy to replace the marred face before me with the one I'd gotten to know this past week. He looks even more fragile in death - the strong façade he put up during training is gone, and all that's left behind is a little boy. A frail, weakened, helpless boy who perished long before his time.

I feel numb. He might have hated me, might have been jealous, might have called me selfish, but I could never be mad at him. How could you be mad at a boy like Clink? How could you resent a child, taken from his friends and family, left to die alone?

My cheek is wet. I lift my hand to my face, wiping it carelessly. The liquid is clear.

 _Tears. I'm crying._

I'm truly alone now. Clink was the last reminder of home, the only familiarity in a place so terrifyingly unknown. With him dead, my last tie to District Three is gone.

A twig snaps behind me in the darkness. I whip my head around quickly, my moment of grief forgotten.

Moments later I exhale a sigh of relief as a figure I recognize emerges from the trees. She approaches slowly, stopping a few feet away. Her dark eyes take in the boy, and she winces visibly at the state of his face. Her gaze settles on the number three sewn onto his shoulder, faintly outlined in the dim moonlight.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

I can't think of an appropriate response. It feels wrong somehow, her apology. Her words make it seem as if Clink's death was my personal loss, as if he and I were friends. No, Clink wasn't a friend of mine; he would probably shudder at the thought of anyone referring to him as such.

 _Well, you_ are _crying next to his body, Widget,_ I remind myself.

I settle on a nod in response. "Let's get out of here," I whisper back.

Kim holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning around and disappearing into the trees. I follow in her footsteps, pausing before I duck into the thick tree line to look back at him one last time.

"I'm sorry, Clink," I murmur. This may be the last time I see him in person, but there is no doubt in my mind that his last moments will continue to haunt me in my dreams for the rest of my life.

However long that may be.

—

I awake to an empty hollow.

Unlike with my previous awakenings in the Capitol and arena, this time around I know exactly where I am. Memories of the night before flood my mind: eating with Kim, bloodcurdling screams... and Clink.

But I don't let myself cry. I don't allow myself to feel the pain like I did with Mukta, because Clink isn't my loss to mourn. Back home in Three, there are undoubtedly people crying over him. People who've known him since he was just a baby. To those people, Clink meant something.

But he was never more than a District partner to me. I have no right to shed tears over his loss; it would be insulting to his memory and to all the people whose lives will never be the same without him in them. He wouldn't be crying over me if our roles were reversed.

No, I mourn the _idea_ of Clink. My heart breaks for every single thirteen year old boy killed by the Capitol. I grieve for all of the future Clinks from every District in Panem who will die alone as he did.

I am snapped out of my depressing thoughts by Kim, who crawls into our little hollow with her shirt full of various plants and berries.

"Oh, you're awake," she says, unloading her spoils on the hollow's floor.

"Yeah."

"Dig in. I found another dandelion patch east from here, which is why breakfast is a bit too yellow. But I figured it was a good idea to nab 'em while we can."

I pick up one of the weeds, chewing the end of it idly. For several moments both of us sit there, eating in a comfortable silence.

Then I surprise myself by making a suggestion, and I don't realize how much I've thought about my words until they're out of my mouth. "I don't think we should stay here."

Kim looks surprised for a moment, before she collects herself and narrows her eyes. "Why?" She questions, twirling a dandelion stalk between her fingers.

"This place won't be safe for very much longer. We're surrounded by tributes. The girls from Seven and Eleven have set up camp somewhere nearby, and you heard the Careers last night. I'm also pretty sure I've spotted the girl from Five foraging outside. It's only a matter of time until someone picks us off."

Kim looks at me thoughtfully before shaking her head.

Irritated by the quick rejection, I press on with an argument. "Listen, it's just not safe to stay-"

"Hold on," the girl from Twelve interrupts. "I get why you're worried. But you do realize _why_ this place is so packed, right?"

I stare at her dumbly for a few seconds.

"Wow. I thought you guys were all supposed to be geniuses in Three," she mutters, shaking her head once more. "Do you remember what kind of terrain you had to cross to get here?"

My mind takes me back to the first day, right after the bloodbath. "Yeah," I reply, "Dry grassland. There were abandoned ruins scattered everywhere."

"Exactly. No water for miles. As a matter of fact, the little pond nearby is the only source of water that I've seen in this whole area."

"But it can't be the only one in the _entire_ arena," I counter. "Remember that bridge on the other side of the Cornucopia?"

Kim sighs. "That's a whole day's trek away from here. And we don't even know what's on the other side of it. Listen, Widget, from what I gathered from my observations in these last couple of days, this Arena is divided into more or less three major sections. There's this foresty-jungly patch, the grasslands, and the other ruiny-foresty area on the other side of the stone bridge. The grasslands are bone dry, and the other area is too far away. Leaving would be stupid."

I look down at my hands. She has a point. But there's this feeling in my chest that won't go away; an ever-present inkling that we're on the verge of something dangerous.

"There hasn't been enough blood," I whisper. "They're gonna do something soon."

Kim looks at me long and hard before turning away. "I know. But the best thing we can do is stay alive until then."

—

By midday the heat of the arena is stifling. If I weren't so concerned about bugs I would be peeling my shirt off of my sweaty body to get some form of relief. Across from me, Kim isn't faring much better; she seems to be coping with the rising temperatures by attempting to take a nap.

My throat burns as I try to swallow, reminding me that I haven't had anything to drink since yesterday.

Having nothing better to do, I decide to go out to quench my thirst. One of Kim's eyes cracks open as I crawl over her.

"Where are you going?" she asks quietly.

"I need water."

"I'll come with you."

With that we both make our way outside and through the trees, towards the clearing. Before long we find ourselves at the crystal-clear pond, and each one of us takes turns watching the trees as the other drinks.

After we're both done Kim occupies herself by picking handfuls of partridge berries from a nearby bush. Upon seeing my smirk, she shrugs. "I still haven't forgiven you," she mutters, popping a few of the pink spheres in her mouth.

Just as we're about to head back to our shelter, we hear the first boom.

I immediately reach for my knife, brandishing it in front of me somewhat uselessly. Kim's eyes are frantic as she scans the tree line for any disturbances.

"What was-"

A second resounding boom echoes all around us at my words, propelling us further into panic mode.

"I think it's c-coming from over th-there," Kim stutters, eyes wide with fear.

Both of us are paralyzed for a few moments, only shocked into motion when the ground beneath us starts to tremble.

"What the hell?" I exclaim, swiveling my head as the pond behind us starts splashing water everywhere. The tremors increase in magnitude, causing me to sway on my feet.

"It's an earthquake!" Kim yelps in realization.

The ground's shaking increases, and Kim falls over. I only have seconds to yank her out of the way before a nearby tree comes crashing down on the spot where she moments ago sat beside me.

"Oh my god," she sputters.

Around us trees continue to fall. The tremors are so powerful that standing up becomes impossible, and I find myself crouching down on my knees to stay balanced.

After what seems like hours, the shaking comes to a sudden stop. Kim and I sit there for several moments, taking deep, relieved breaths in the ensuing silence.

Our relief is short-lived.

Out of nowhere a figure bursts into the clearing from our left. The top of his head has a nasty gash running across it, and blood trickles in streaks like tears down his cheeks.

He doesn't see us at first, and in the time it takes him to collect himself I realize he's that boy from Seven. Barker. Maya's cousin-in-law.

By the time my brain realizes that _hey, it might be a good idea to stand up and run,_ he's already turning around to face us.

He freezes for a moment, taking in the sight of us. Brown eyes widen, then narrow into slits seconds later. I tentatively rise up off the ground, not daring to tear my own eyes off of the tree-climber, who tenses at my movement.

Next to me, Kim makes an odd squeaking sound.

After several minutes of tense silence, the boy speaks up.

"That damn earth seizure destroyed my supplies."

Oh. I wasn't expecting that to come out of his mouth. His posture is still one-hundred-percent tensed and ready to pounce, but the words themselves aren't inherently hostile. Perhaps there's still hope.

"Ours too, probably," I chuckle, but it sounds forced. Kim lets out another high-pitched noise.

"Hmm..." Barker looks me up and down, eyeing the knife clutched in my hand. "You've got a weapon, at least."

"Oh, yeah... Um..." I struggle to find something to say that'll ease the tension a little. "I brought it along. Protection, you know..."

The dark boy nods appraisingly before taking a single step in our direction. I immediately take a step backwards.

"You wanna know something, Three?" The boy's expression twists into a sly smirk. "I was blown away when I saw your training score. Apparently, the gamemakers think we're of the same caliber."

"Oh, well," I stammer, taking another uneasy step back. "Those scores are all subjective, you know, and-"

"No, no. Don't downplay your achievement. It was quite impressive." His smirk morphs into something more sinister. "Since we're so evenly matched, what do you say we give the audience a showdown? Something to bet on, hmm?"

Two more steps forward. Two more steps back.

"As tempting as that sounds, Barker-"

"Oh, we're on a first name basis? I'm terribly sorry, but yours seems to have slipped my mind."

Another step forward. Another step back.

Jerk. "I told you my name in training, remember? It's Widget. We had a good laugh about Maya, and you told me-"

He doesn't let me finish. All at once he pounces, resembling a cat in the way that he lunges towards me. With almost super-human speed, the boy from Seven closes the distance between us, bypassing a frozen Kim and grabbing me around my middle. Panic seizes my brain as I thrash in his arms.

"Don't worry. I'm not cruel like the others. I'll make it quick," he murmurs in my ear before closing one hand around my throat.

All at once I can't breathe. The pain is made even worse by the fact that my neck is still bruised from when the girl from One almost strangled me two days ago. Except there's no knife-wielding Ranther to rescue me this time.

Knife-wielding...

It happens so quickly that I don't really have time to process my actions. One moment the boy's hands are around my neck, and the next they're bloody and slashed open as my knife drips red.

Barker lets go of me with a yelp, cradling his bleeding hands with a murderous expression on his face. "That stupid knife," he growls, looking up at me in rage.

Though the situation is dire, I can't help but feel pride for my quick thinking. Maybe I have adequate instincts for self-preservation, after all. However, my moment of pride is quickly dampened.

"You're going to pay for that."

I'm running before the words even finish forming on his tongue. I can hear him close behind me, but don't dare look back.

Except I'm coming to a dead end. Ahead of me is the pond, and turning around will be impossible. Trying to go around it will slow me down too much.

Barker realizes my hopeless predicament before I do. "Ha!" he exclaims. "I've got you now, Three!"

He's running faster than I am, gaining momentum with each step. Momentum equals mass times velocity. He's a bigger, heavier person, running at a way faster speed than I am...

He won't be able to stop.

I deliberately slow my footsteps just a tiny bit. I can hear his breathless laughs behind me as he gets closer and closer, anticipating my demise.

The pond is only ten feet away now. A look of determination on my face, I sprint until I'm only a foot away from the water's edge before sidestepping to the right.

I turn in time to see the look of sheer terror on Barker's face before there's a loud splash as his own weight forces him to leap through the air and land in the water.

He immediately goes under and doesn't come up for several seconds. When he does, however, he begins thrashing desperately on the surface.

Swimming isn't a skill most children in the Districts, with the exception of District Four, acquire. It just isn't necessary. Back home in Three absolutely no one knows the first thing about physically keeping yourself afloat. Many people could tell you the _theory_ of flotation; most would be able to recite that an object immersed in a liquid or gas is acted upon by an upward force equal to the weight of the displaced fluid. Buoyant force arises from a difference of density between a fluid and the object immersed: its third-year physics at PATT.

But knowing the science behind buoyancy in no way equates to being able to swim or float _yourself_ , and several tributes from District Three have fallen victim to drowning over the years.

Barker's whole life has centered on chopping trees. Why would he have to know how to swim?

The boy stares at me in desperation, pleading for help in between gulps of air. "Please! Please, Three-" his words cut off as he goes under. "Help me! I can't-" gasp, "swim!"

It's quite a sight to behold, seeing someone so strong reduced to this level of helplessness.

Hearing a noise to my left, I turn to find Kim coming towards me reluctantly.

"Where did you head off to?" I say annoyedly over the sounds of the drowning boy.

"I left," she says, unrepentantly. "I thought you were a goner. I couldn't help you."

I want to be angry at her for abandoning me. I want to so badly, but I can't. That would be hypocritical; I would have done the same thing had I been in her place.

Together we stand there as Barker's head bobs up and down. His screams eventually quiet as he dedicates all of his energy to staying above water. His jump carried him too far from the edge - he has nothing to hold onto.

"I want you to know that my respect for you has doubled," Kim says to me quietly. I turn my head to look at her again, only to find her gaze fixed to the still-thrashing Barker.

"Why?"

"Because if I were you I would have been dead in his hands."

The boy from Seven is now completely submerged. Bubbles rise up from his dark spot beneath the surface.

"Any minute now," the girl from Twelve breathes.

By the time the canon sounds I feel exhausted. Two deaths today. Both familiar people, both of which I witnessed. It's more death than I ever thought I would see in my entire life.

"I'm pretty sure our shelter's been destroyed by the earthquake," Kim says from beside me.

"Then we better get another one ready before nightfall," I reply.

The day is still far from over, but I feel as if I've been awake for weeks. My feet drag as I try to keep up with my ally's quick footsteps.

There are so many unknowns in my world right now. I don't know how long Kim and I will last in our alliance. I have no idea where our next shelter will be, or who will be the next to die in these Games. I don't know if I will ever see the ones I love again.

The only thing I can say for sure in this moment is that I leave the clearing ten years older than I was when I entered it. And if things keep progressing as they have so far, I will be a hundred by the time the Games are over.

* * *

 **A/N:** _This chapter was a bit harder to write for some reason. Unlike with the other chapters that all practically wrote themselves, this one required more thinking on my part. I think it came out okay in the end, though._

 _Not that I've been updating very frequently anyway, but I wanted to put it out there that the next chapter DEFINITELY won't be coming until after final exams, which for me are happening on the 13th, 14th and 15th. After that, though... FREEDOM!_

 _Thanks for reading. I love love love getting email notifications on this story, so please keep them coming! Reviews, PMs, whatever. it's ALL appreciated. :)_


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